


deadbeat club

by ssstrychnine



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stranger Things Fusion, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, Makeup, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Prom, background stanlon almost always
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: assorted one-shot prompts originally posted on tumblr, mostly reddie, mostly first kisses.





	1. petnames (reddie)

**Author's Note:**

> so i wanted to post everything here in case tumblr really does die. [can all be found here as well, until that happens.](http://oneangryshot.tumblr.com/)

It’s been almost five months since Richie and Eddie started dating. Five months since Eddie’s birthday and the awful cake Richie made and the even worse song he wrote and Eddie with a crush already, a crush always, just needing a kiss and a confession, and then it’s done. They’ve been practically married for years anyway, everyone says so.

They go on dates, sort of, though honestly it’s not a lot different to how they’ve always been. The school field gets turned into a shitty paintball course for the summer and all of them go together and Richie either uses Eddie as a human shield or protects him so thoroughly Eddie has to spend forty minutes afterwards murmuring soothingly and rubbing arnica cream into the vicious purpled bruises spotting his stomach and shoulders. Mike shows Richie how his quad bike works and they take it out across his farm for a picnic, Eddie holding onto Richie so tight there’s no way he’s breathing easy, yelling the whole time. Richie not breaking properly and almost running the bike into the river. Getting ice cream and arguing about who has the better flavour the entire time they eat, sharing anyway so it doesn’t even matter.

But more often than not, it’s the Aladdin, holding hands in the dark and sharing candy and popcorn and Richie getting shushed by six separate people in two hours. Honestly, Eddie kind of loves it, kind of loves the way Richie watches movies, reacting to everything hugely, sharp gasps and barked laughter, punching Eddie in the shoulder when there’s a twist because he never sees them coming. It’s way more endearing than it should be. It should be annoying as hell and Eddie definitely tells him it’s annoying as hell, but secretly he loves it. He loves it all.

Tonight it’s The Usual Suspects, and Richie falls half in love with Benicio Del Toro in black and red, with his voice all slurred and clumsy and strangely lilting, and afterwards he keeps trying to imitate it, giggling wildly, one arm slung across Eddie’s shoulders.

“ _Han’me th’fucking keys ya cocksucker, what th’fuck_ ,” he rasps, briefly pressing his face into Eddie’s hair and then pulling away.

“Oh, so… so you’re in love with a six foot Prada looking motherfucker now? How am I supposed to compete with that? Do I have to start dressing like I’m from the… the fucking rat pack or some shit?”

“No, Eds, you’re Keyser Söze, all unassuming with a fake limp and shit but secretly a fucking savage. Keyser Söze can wear roller rink shorts every day if he wants.” Richie elbows him gently in the side. “ _I’m_ the tall Puerto Rican model.”

Eddie laughs. “Sure you are, sweetheart,” he says, and it’s nothing really, just a word, just fake scorn, just a joke, but Richie reacts like he’s been tazed. His laugh trips over itself and the high points of his cheeks flush smudgey pink. It’s a moment, a split second of strangeness, and then he’s back to normal, going over his favourite parts of the movie again, doing Kevin Spacey’s voice too, mild and flat and mummified.

They go back to Richie’s, because his parents are almost never there, because they probably wouldn’t notice them even if they were, because Eddie’s mum looks at Richie like he’s patient zero. It’s fucked up, honestly, so Eddie tries to make up for it by being there as much as possible. As much as he can. After school and on the weekends and now that it’s summer, he practically lives there. It’s mostly because Richie makes the best grilled cheese on the entire planet. It’s mostly because he wants him to know that someone’s thinking of him, almost always.

They hang out in the living room, sprawled out across the couch together. Eddie hums under his breath, plays with one of Richie’s hands, tugging at his fingers, dragging his thumb over the cut wave of his knuckles. Richie is talking, fast and blurred and incoherent, and all Eddie can think about is the way his voice had hitched when he’d called him sweetheart, the way his cheeks had flushed, like the pinked edges of a bruise. Richie Tozier, _the Trashmouth_ , who calls Eddie obnoxiously cheesy nicknames roughly ten thousand times a day, tripped up by something said like nothing, just a laugh and a word. It’s… interesting. It’s kind of amazing, actually. Eddie licks his lips.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and then he says, “ _baby_.” 

Richie stutters to a stop, and his cheeks flare pink again, like red dye dropped in water, a cloud of a blush, and his hand curls into a fist under Eddie’s palm. He wrinkles his nose, pulls his free hand through his hair, and his eyelashes flutter and then settle closed, sooty black against his skin. He looks unfocused, like he always does when he isn’t wearing his glasses, kind of naked and young and soft.

“Okay, but you can’t just say that to a guy,” he says, opening his eyes, shaking his head like he’s clearing it, like he’s settling back into his body. “Or, I mean at least give me some fucking warning before… before-”

“What, calling you baby?”

“What the fuck,” he whines, pressing the backs of his hands to his cheeks. “You’re obviously the baby.”

“Sweetheart,” laughs Eddie. “Darling, baby angel.”

Richie throws himself at Eddie, pressing his palm over his mouth and bearing him back onto the couch, and Eddie laughs, helplessly, teeth scraping against Richie’s skin, and he tastes like the sticky blue raspberry candies from the movies, like buttered popcorn, sweet and salt.

“Have you even washed your hands since the movie? That’s disgusting,” says Eddie, into his palm. “Baby, you’re disgusting.”

Richie grumbles against Eddie’s neck, mouth warm and soft, and he moves his hand from Eddie’s mouth and tucks it into the collar of his shirt instead, so his knuckles brush his collarbone. He’s heavy, bigger than Eddie is, all long limbs and tangles, but Eddie think it’s nice, really, the way they fit together. Richie’s knees and Eddie’s thighs and the slope of their shoulders, curved towards each other.

“Eddie Spaghetti,” he hums, against Eddie’s throat. “You can’t beat me at my own game.”

“Your game is weak,” laughs Eddie. “You’re fucked, puppy.”

Richie wriggles in place, whines and tugs at Eddie’s t-shirt and kicks his feet, his mismatched socks, playing at a tantrum. Eddie grins, wraps his arms around him to keep him still, pushing the back of his t-shirt up so he’s touching skin.

“Call me puppy again and we’re getting a divorce,” says Richie, pulling back a little, pouting cutely.

“No we aren’t,” says Eddie, contentedly. “I love you, puppy.”

“Fuck you,” whispers Richie, and he’s scarlet now, blushing all the way to his ears. “Love you too, Eds.”

They fall asleep there, on the couch, tangled up. And Eddie is woken up an hour later by the alarm on his watch, telling him he has twenty minutes until curfew, just enough time to get back. He struggles out from under Richie, who protests sleepily, hair everywhere, mouth slack, and he grabs his backpack, shrugs it on. 

“We’ll leave soon,” says Richie, words thick and slurred. “Whole new world, you ‘n me an’ those other assholes.”

“Yeah,” hums Eddie, leaning down to kiss Richie’s forehead, his crooked knuckles. “Losers club take on the open road.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Me too, baby,” says Eddie, and he touches Richie’s hair one more time, winds a curl around his finger and lets it go, and then he leaves, shutting the front door behind him as quietly as he can, and heading home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the scene that richie is imitating](https://youtu.be/tDfZ5HmA6fs?t=55)


	2. 10 things style serenade (reddie)

On a Friday, near the end of the school year, Richie Tozier gets his radio privileges revoked. Eddie’s not entirely sure how he managed to convince the head of their school that Derry High needed a DJ in the first place, but he did, and for four months he was their voice in the morning. And he fucked up important messages and he told bad jokes and he usually got to play about thirty seconds of any number of totally inappropriate songs before getting cut off. Four months is longer than any of them expected. Four months is three and a half months longer than their closest guess. Bev makes fifty bucks off that.

It’s because of Eddie that he gets fired. Well. Actually, Eddie refuses to take responsibility for any of Richie’s fuck ups, because they’re all very much his. Eddie’s an innocent bystander. Maybe the most innocent bystander there ever was. Literally every single other loser can be blamed more than Eddie can, especially Stan. It happens like this:

Eddie is sitting on the bleachers and he’s kind of a little bit confused because it’s ten minutes into lunch and so far no one else has shown up. His last class had been history, with Ben, but Ben had disappeared as soon as the bell rang, like a ghost into the crowd of students flooding the hallway. And it’s fine, because sure, maybe he’s doing something with Bev, some cute couple shit or whatever, but then Eddie gets to the bleachers, where they usually meet, and no one is there either. He picks at his sandwich. He presses his feet together, so the rubber at the soles of his shoes are touching at their widest points and at the heels, a curved sliver of space in between. Someone’s running laps out on the field, looping around all the groups of people gathered out on the grass. Eddie’s nose feels itchy, like he’s getting a cold, and it’s weird to be there alone. He drags his thumbnail along a split in the wooden bench.

When the intercom screams, he almost jumps out of his skin. It’s a sharp blast of static coming from the speakers set into the top of the bleachers, and it cuts sharply against everything, against the sun and the grass and all the students eating lunch, and then it’s Richie, because of course it’s fucking Richie.

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” he says, voice pitched low and crooning. Eddie freezes in place. Some of the people out on the field turn to look at him. “Eddie Kasprak, go to prom with me.”

When he starts to sing, Eddie almost dies. He literally almost implodes right there because holy shit, Richie is not a good singer, and holy shit, whoever is playing guitar is equally terrible, so bad he almost doesn’t recognise the song.

“All I want, is a room with a view, a sight worth seeing, a vision of you-”

“Oh fuck,” hisses Eddie, into his palms. “Oh holy shit and fucking fuck.”

There’s more static, the sound of chairs moving, squeaking over the music, some incoherent muttering, not Richie, and then Richie’s voice gets louder, and it’s even worse.

“I will give you my finest hour, the one I spent watching you shower-”

There are people pointing at Eddie now, and girls giggling behind their hands. Eddie thinks maybe he’s died already, maybe he’s actually in Hell. The guitar player fucks up and struggles to get back into place. Did Richie ask him to prom? Did he imagine that? It’s been overshadowed by just how bad the song is. If he did, well… Eddie isn’t entirely sure what to do about that. He’ll say no. He’ll say no just to piss Richie off. But maybe dancing with him would be kind of… not… completely awful. Maybe. Definitely. Fuck.

“All I want is a photo in my wallet, a small remembrance of something more solid,” Richie continues, and Eddie knows the chorus is coming up, but nothing prepares him for the way Richie screams it, voice wavering up and down, and then the guitar player starts laughing in the background and it’s definitely Stan. Eddie’s going to die and then he’s going to come back and murder both of them. And the others for abandoning him to this. He’s pretty sure his face has melted off.

When he realises there’s something happening on the field, he knows that’s Richie too. The crowd parting like the red sea, Richie emerging from the crowd clutching a microphone to his mouth, Stan behind him strumming furiously at an acoustic guitar. Eddie’s heart is in his throat and this is so incredibly fucked up but it’s also kind of. Incredibly endearing. He can’t believe that is the face of the guy he wants to kiss. Has wanted to kiss for a long time now. It’s a terrible face. A terrible face and an even worse voice.

“All I want is twenty-twenty vision,” he croons, and okay, that’s kind of funny, actually. Eddie’ll give him that one.

He teeters along the song to the end, voice cracking over the chorus again, and he’s dancing like Blondie too, an awkward sort of shoulder dance, the occasionally spin, vogueing with his free arm. He really should be wearing a bright yellow dress, for authenticity, Eddie’s seen the music video. If Bev were involved he definitely would be. Okay. Maybe Eddie’ll let her off the hook then, but the rest are definitely dead. Especially Stan.

“Try to do what you used to do  _ yeaaaaaah _ ,” Richie finishes dramatically, trying to put a ragged kind of growl in his voice that mostly just sounds painful. The crowd that’s gathered goes wild, screaming and clapping and laughing and Stan takes off at a sprint, holding the guitar awkwardly out in front of him, while Richie takes a bow.

When he’s lapped up enough attention, Richie starts making his way doggedly up the bleachers, striding over the benches instead of taking the stairs. Eddie’s hands are shaking a little bit, so he sits on them. Richie drops down on the bench next to him. His cheeks are pink and his hair is everywhere, but he’s smiling. There’s something terrified under all of it too, and that makes Eddie feel infinitely better. Infinitely softer about the whole thing.

“Care to respond?” Richie asks, pointing the microphone at Eddie, wincing when it feeds back and a crackling screech echoes around the field.

“Fuck off,” says Eddie, directly into the microphone. “Put that shit away.”

Richie laughs but does as he’s told, switching off the microphone and putting it down carefully beside him. He kicks his legs out in front of him. He pushes his glasses up his nose, shades shades his eyes to stare down at the field.

“What the fuck was that?” asks Eddie, gentler than he could have been.

“I’m wooing you,” says Richie, and he laughs, kind of nervous, kind of soft. Eddie nudges at him with his shoulder.

“It wasn’t even a romantic song,” he says. “Just… mostly just fucking creepy.”

“Go to prom with me.”

“No.”

“Come on Eds, go to prom with me.”

“No way, Richie.”

“Fine,” Richie sighs dramatically. “It’s fucked up you made me do that then.”

“Your throat okay?”

“Yeah, I’m a born singer,” huffs Richie.

Eddie laughs, leans back on his hand, tilts his face to the sun. He’ll say yes. He’ll say yes later, but now he just wants to sit with Richie and not have to think about shit like that. Prom is kind of… well. He has complicated feelings about prom. Dancing with a boy. Roses and bad music and fairy lights. It’d be nice to get a picture with Richie, though he’d definitely ruin it pulling some weird face or fucking with Eddie’s hair or something. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d take it really seriously.

“Eds, can I…” Richie’s voice breaks a little and Eddie turns to him and he looks so nervous suddenly, so totally freaked out that Eddie wants to hug him. Never let him go. “Okay don’t laugh but can I just like… hold your hand or something?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just smiles, just grins at his best friend in the whole world, and takes his hand, and laces their fingers together. Fuck it. Fuck it, Richie  _ serenaded  _ him. It’s like something out of a romantic comedy. They’ll kiss soon, in some dramatically cute way. But for now, they just sit there, holding hands and swinging their legs, bathed in sun. 

Then the intercom crackles again: “Richie Tozier, please report to the principal’s office.”

Richie sighs like the world is ending and Eddie laughs.

“After I’ve dealt with this, I’m gonna ask you to prom again,” he says, letting go of Eddie’s hand and standing up.

“I’ll consider changing my answer,” says Eddie.

Richie gets fired from his job as student DJ and he gets an after school detention and Eddie doesn’t try to sneak him out. He knew exactly what he was doing, fucking around like that. Eddie lets him rot, goes with Bev to get milkshakes instead, and they sit outside the drugstore in the sun to drink them. Bev teases Eddie about Richie and Eddie teases her about Ben. Both of them are very satisfied by it, really, because both of them are kind of stupid in love.

“You didn’t make him a dress,” says Eddie. “He looks nice in yellow.”

“He wouldn’t even let me tease his hair,” sighs Bev. “It could’ve been so perfect.”

She leaves a little later and Eddie heads back to the school. He takes a small paper bag of candy and they’re not for Richie, definitely not. They’re for him. There might be some left over though. He waits by the bike stand and when Richie emerges, blinking widely behind his glasses, like he’s been underground for years and is unused to the sun, Eddie waves. They walk home together. Richie knocks at him with his shoulder until he grabs his hand and holds it. Eddie gives him candy, sour worms, because he likes them best.

“How’d you get Stan to agree to that?” he asks, swinging their hands between them.

“I got dirt on him,” says Richie, with great satisfaction. “Kid’s in love with Mike.”

“Literally everyone knows that.”

“Don’t tell him that, if you want me to survive long enough to take you to prom.”

“Alright,” says Eddie.

“Is that a yes?”

“I’m just doing it to keep you alive.”

“You’re a hero, Eds,” says Richie, softly.

They get to Richie’s house and Eddie stops with him. Richie takes his other hand, so he’s holding both, and Eddie thinks it’s kind of hard to look at him like this, when he’s all happy and sweet, like looking at the sun, but Richie doesn’t seem to have the same trouble. He’s got his head tilted to one side and he’s looking at Eddie like he never wants to look at anything else. They’re going to prom together, thinks Eddie, frantically. He better get him a corsage.

“Can I-”

“Richie, stop asking me to do shit and just-”

Richie kisses him. Takes his face in his hands and kisses him, close-mouthed, chaste and sweet, his glasses knocking against Eddie’s brow. Eddie only barely keeps his ground, clutches at Richie’s t-shirt to keep himself upright, stretching out the collar. Richie kisses him, and it’s clumsy and awkward and kind of perfect and Eddie’s still kind of pissed at him, for doing something so public like that, but he’s also kind of totally charmed by it. They’re going to prom together. They’re going to get a photo together and even if Richie fucks it up, it’ll still be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [richie sings this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QbdCpi4qTNY)


	3. fake dating (reddie)

It’s an accident, all of it, but it’s still definitely his mother’s fault. It starts with Eddie, sitting at the coffee table in his living room, doing his homework, minding his own business. It starts with his mother, drifting into the room and sitting on the couch, flipping through TV channels so rapidly Eddie knows immediately she wants to ask him something awful. Or tell him something awful. Or just be awful in general. His grip on his pencil tightens. He presses his fingers to the centre of his textbook, where the pages meet the spine, so hard it creaks and he’s pretty sure Stan would act like he’d killed a man if he could see it. He thinks the bones of books are just as important as the bones of people. It’s probably part of the reason he and Mike and Ben get on so well. And then his mother takes a breath and Eddie steels himself.

“Sweetheart,” she says, “when are you going to bring a girl home?”

Eddie is so startled he drops his pencil. “Uh,” he says, stupidly. “Never, because of all the… I mean because of diseases, STDs… right? Isn’t that… I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”

She laughs. Eddie feels a little bit like someone’s about to step out from behind a shelf waving a camcorder. Probably Richie, though God knows how he would’ve got his mother in on it. She hates his guts.

“It’s just a little unusual,” she continues, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. “A boy your age. And, well, there are some nice girls in the neighbourhood, aren’t there? Millie Rhodes across the street is a lovely girl, and pretty.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He feels strange, twisted inside, like his blood’s on fire. A boy his age. What the fuck? What the  _ fuck _ . Is he supposed to agree to this?  _ Oh sure, mum, I’ll just trot across the road and ask Millie fucking Rhodes to prom _ . Like she doesn’t already think he’s the biggest loser on the planet. Like she isn’t one of Greta’s gang, still trying to make Bev’s life hell after all this time. Like asking a girl out is something he’d ever actually do anyway. What the fuck. It’s not like he’s over the hill, just seventeen and single. He shuts his textbook, sandwiching the pencil between the pages, and he stands up, muttering a quiet goodnight to his mother, and he goes to his room and tries to forget about it.

Sonia Kaspbrak has other ideas. Every single day she’ll mention some girl she’s met at church or at the market or at the fucking drugstore. A girl who is sweet and pretty and clean. A knee-socks girl in Keds and a pleated skirt. Eddie’s sure they’re all lovely, except Millie Rhodes, but… he tries to think about things like dating and kissing and sexuality as little as possible, because it’s easier that way. Because if he thinks about it then he might find an answer to all his fear, which is somehow even scarier. But she doesn’t seem to even notice his discomfort and she brings up the possibility of him dating at every chance she can get and Eddie feels a little bit like he’s drowning.

He brings Richie home with him one day, hoping he might act as a sort of buffer. Maybe Eddie’s mum will see him and stop talking about girls for one goddamn second and he’ll make it a whole day without hearing about any of it. A whole day without the threat of romance. Twenty four perfect hours.

“”M home, mum,” he calls, opening the front door. “Richie’s here.”

“I know I’m a little early for our date, Mrs K., but-” starts Richie, before Eddie pinches him viciously in the side and he squeaks to a stop.

“Eddie, come here,” says his mother.

He moves into the living room, Richie half a step behind him, and he resists the urge to put his hands behind his back, straighten his shoulders, press his feet together. She doesn’t look at Richie. Eddie resists the urge to grab him and push him at her, so she’s forced to acknowledge he exists.

“Eddie, I’ve set up a date for you,” she says. “With Millie Rhodes. Her mother is very excited.”

For a moment, Eddie doesn’t really know what to do. He stares at her. He stares at her and next to him Richie has gone still too, like a statue, more frozen than Richie Tozier ever has any right to be. He’s going to say something in a second, thinks Eddie, desperately. He’s going to say something weird and funny and I’m going to realise that this is real life and I really, really don’t want it to be real fucking life,  _ oh my god- _

“Richie’s my boyfriend,” blurts Eddie, caught on his panic, and he grabs Richie’s hand and tugs him to his side. There’s a deafening silence, broken only by Eddie’s mum’s ragged breathing. Her eyes are impossibly wide. Richie’s hand is warm.

“That I am,” says Richie, breaking through it all, pulling Eddie more firmly against his side, slinging his arm around his shoulders. “Sweethearts, me and Eds, a new thing, but inevitable, like the heat death of the universe.”

“What?” whispers Eddie’s mum, her eyes returned to their normal size, looking like she might start to scream at any second.

“Okay, so, we’re gonna… we’re gonna go,” says Eddie, hurriedly, and he throws himself out of the room and up the stairs, pulling Richie behind him.

They crash through Eddie’s bedroom door and into his room and Eddie shuts the door behind them even though he’s about ninety eight percent sure they’ll hear his mother yelling at them to keep it open in five minutes. Once she’s started breathing again. He spins on his toes. Richie is sitting on his bed already and he’s taken his glasses off, is cleaning them with the hem of his jumper, lower lip stuck out in concentration. Shit, thinks Eddie. 

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what just happened, why did I do that? What do I do now? I can… I’ll just go down and tell her it was a joke, a really shitty… a really shitty fucking joke and-”

“It’s fine,” says Richie, putting his glasses on again, pushing them up his nose. “Is this you coming out though? Cos honestly, there are better ways to do that.”

“I…” Eddie blinks, wrings his hands. “I guess?” he says, screwing up his face and then hiding behind his hands. What if Richie hates him? What if everyone hates him? How the fuck do you accidentally come out? Oh my god, oh my god he’s going to… everything’s all fucked up and he’s going to…. He sinks, very slowly, into a crouch. He licks his lips. He stares at the carpet of his bedroom, grey blue loops of wool.

“Okay, cool,” says Richie, surprising him all over again. “Me too.”

“You too what?” Eddie whispers into his hands, cupped over his mouth like he’s trying to cram everything he’s said in the last ten minutes back down his throat.

“Uh…” Richie laughs, tugs at a piece of his hair. “I don’t just like girls?”

“Oh,” says Eddie. “ _ Oh _ .”

Eddie’s mother doesn’t say anything. She stays strangely quiet about the whole thing, doesn’t even make him keep the door open, is in her bedroom when they come down the stairs a little later. He should definitely knock on her door, tell her it was a joke anyway, shut himself firmly back into the closet, but he doesn’t. He just walks Richie to the door.

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart,” says Richie, winking.

“Never speak to me again,” says Eddie, and he shuts the door.

They tell Bill first, when they’re at his place for a movie night. It’s Bill and Bev and Stan and Richie, sprawled out over various pieces of furniture, and usually Ben and Mike are there but not tonight. Tonight they’re at the library doing a history project they’re both way too interested in. Richie is taking up as much space as he can on the biggest couch and Bev is sitting at one end, legs hanging over Richie’s shins, and Eddie is in the middle, hugging his knees to his chest, his toes under Richie’s thighs.

“Something happened,” he says, another accident, another blurted piece of nonsense he can’t hold back. And it’s not like he wants to keep anything from them, they’re his friends, his family, the best people in the world, but he’s still… scared. Richie is watching him, expression unreadable, and after a moment of silence he reaches over, knocks the back of his hand against Eddie’s shoulder. A strange sort of comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

“S-s-spit it out,” says Bill, a wry twist to his mouth.

“I… okay, you’re gonna think this is really dumb but, my mum was trying to get me to date Millie Rhodes, right-”

“Like hell,” says Bev, savagely, and Stan nods, expression thoughtful.

“Yeah, yeah I know, and I told her I didn’t want to but she wouldn’t leave me alone and I guess… I kind of told her I’m dating Richie so uh. Now I’m dating Richie. Fake… I mean fake-dating Richie.”

“We’re very much in love,” murmurs Richie.

“Why Richie?” Stan asks, wrinkling his nose. “Your mum likes me better.”

“I know,” groans Eddie. “I know, I fucked up.”

“ _ Wow _ ,” says Richie, scandalised.

“Are y-you gay, Eddie?” asks Bill.

“I… yeah,” says Eddie. “Yeah, um… yes.”

“There are better ways to come out to your mum, Eddie,” says Bev, gently.

“No there aren’t,” says Richie, wriggling in place, tipping himself over on the couch until he’s upside down, hair brushing against the carpet. “This is the best way, Bev, don’t fuck him up worse, it’s happened.” He grabs Eddie’s thigh to anchor himself. His glasses fall off his face.

“Shut up, Richie,” mutters Eddie. He groans, covers his face with his hands, and Bev hugs him to her with one arm. Bev, his best friend, cinnamon gum and smoke. Why the fuck didn’t he say he was dating  _ her _ ? If he was gonna pick someone his mum hated, it would’ve been easier to pick a girl. Shit. Well, at least he’s telling the truth this way, choosing a boy to fake date.

“Literally none of this is necessary,” announces Stan, the only one of them with any sanity left.

But honestly, it doesn’t change much. Eddie’s mum still won’t really speak to him, but otherwise everything’s the same. The loser’s club, skulking around the barrens even though it’s almost winter and kind of freezing and covered in waterlogged autumn leaves. It’s not like Eddie and Richie have to keep up appearances there. Or anywhere, really. It’s not like they have to hold hands in public or kiss or… whatever. Richie always has his arm around Eddie’s shoulders anyway. Is always appearing out of nowhere to hug Eddie from behind, to reach around and put his cold hands in Eddie’s coat pockets, press his cold nose to Eddie’s warm cheek, make him yell and push him away and laugh and pull him back by the sleeve.

Mostly, Richie just comes to Eddie’s house more often, which is fine with Richie because his own place has been kind of a mess recently, and he doesn’t really talk about it, but Eddie knows. They sit on his bed and do homework or watch TV or argue about who’s the best Tekken character (Eddie knows it’s Nina Williams, but Richie insists it’s the fucking jaguar head guy). And Eddie knows he shouldn’t, but he catches himself sometimes, wondering what it’d be like to date Richie for real. Maybe that’d be exactly the same too. Just more… just more kissing. His mouth looks soft, he thinks, even though he never uses chapstick and the skin on his lower lip gets a little dry sometimes. He likes his freckles too, and the way his hair gets curlier as it grows, like a halo around his face. And then he remembers that Richie is his friend, that they’re not dating, that they’re barely even fake-dating because Eddie’s mother is barely ever anywhere near them, and he pushes all of that out of his head. Just idle thoughts, he tells himself. Just nothing.

They run into his mum in public once. They’re with Stan and Mike, across the road from the drugstore, figuring out how much money they have between them, how many times Mike can kill them at air hockey. How many times Stan can fool them into thinking he’s terrible at pool. And Eddie spots his mother, walking down the street towards them. 

“Quick, Eddie, we gotta make out,” says Richie, grabbing Eddie by the hand and pulling him toward him so violently he stumbles and almost falls.

“No… no, I don’t think we do,” he says, faintly, but he doesn’t let go of Richie’s hand. He presses their palms together a little closer, chews on his lip, watches his mother pick up one of the wire baskets stacked up outside the pharmacy and go inside.

“This is maybe the dumbest shit you two have ever done,” says Stan. “Which is kinda saying a lot.”

“Wait, what did they do?” Mike asks, looking between Richie and Eddie, a frown creasing his forehead.

“They’re fake dating,” sighs Stan. “So Eddie’s mum stops trying to set him up with girls from their street.”

“That’s… a way to be,” says Mike, and Stan grins at him and they look so much like they’re caught in a bubble, caught on smiles and on sun, even wrapped up in scarves and coats like they are, that Eddie sways a little closer to Richie, squeezes his hand before he can tell himself it’s a bad idea. They can’t even see his mum anymore, but neither of them let go. They stay holding hands until they get to the arcade, and then Eddie keeps his hands in his pockets, like he might be able to keep the warmth.

They run into her in private once too. At Eddie’s house, watching a movie in the living room, far passed the time she usually goes to bed. She appears in a doorway and Richie almost jumps out of his skin and then he throws himself into Eddie’s lap. She stares at them. Eddie stares back. Richie settles himself in his lap, hums to himself, takes one of Eddie’s hands. He weighs a tonne but it isn’t uncomfortable, not really. Eddie squashes the urge to giggle, to burst into something like nervous hysterics. 

“Good night, boys,” says his mum, quiet, tired, and then she disappears.

Richie stays sitting in his lap, turns one of Eddie’s hands over in his, inspecting his palm like he’s telling his fortune. He drags a finger down one line, tickles his palm. He leans in closer, rests his head against Eddie’s shoulder, even though he’s something close to half a foot taller than him, all limbs and hair. Eddie’s heart is beating rapidly. Eddie thinks of hummingbirds, of the bright green of their feathers, of the needle-sharp of their beaks. He thinks that’s all the approval he’s ever gonna get from his mum. 

“You can get off me now,” he says, quietly.

“Or,” says Richie, thoughtfully. “Or, we could actually start dating. We wouldn’t even need to tell your mum again.”

“What?” Eddie’s heart stutters to a stop and then splutters back into life, triple-speed, a hummingbird’s wings. “ _ What _ ?”

“Like. I mean… if you wanted to.” He’s staring at Eddie’s hand, the one he’s holding, like he thinks he might be able to set it on fire with his mind. “You’re… I mean, I’m kind of… I think you’re the best person on the planet and I wanna kiss your face.” 

“What,” says Eddie, again, not even a question, just a whispered word that’s lost its meaning. Richie’s eyelashes are soot black and lying low across his cheeks. Dark against his skin, against his freckles. His hair is a nightmare. He smells kind of like old spice mixed with Axe body spray. Because he’s a teenage disaster. 

“Right,” says Richie, struggling to get up. “Right, sorry Eds.”

And it’s an accident. Really, Eddie just means to reach forward and turn Richie’s face back towards him, kiss him gentle and sweet, like he’s wanted to for so long. Instead, he gets stuck on the movement a little bit and slaps him, palm to his cheek, not gentle or sweet, but not that hard either. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ?” cries Richie, pressing one hand to his face, the soft red blooming there, pulling back from Eddie so fast he falls out of his lap and off the couch altogether. 

“I’msorrywasanaccident,” says Eddie, a rush of sound. “Sorrysorryshit _ fuck _ .”

“I’m never asking you out again, Kaspbrak,” mutters Richie, on the floor, rubbing furiously at his face and then scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Eddie thinks he’s blushing too, but it’s hard to tell, really.

“Go out with me,” says Eddie, trying to fix it. “Be my real boyfriend, not fake… my actual real boyfriend who I… I mean who I kiss, if you want. I probably won’t hit you again.”

“You better fucking not,” says Richie, but he’s smiling now. “Didn’t know you were Nina fucking Williams.” 

He sits back down on the couch, close, but not close enough. Eddie touches his cheek, brushes the backs of his fingers across the warm skin. He hadn’t hit him hard, it’s nothing really, just a flush. Eddie will keep an eye on it, just in case. He leans forward, presses his lips there too, a kiss to make him feel better, and Richie smiles under him.

“Now here,” he murmurs, touching his lower lip, and Eddie does as he’s asked, kisses him, gentle and sweet, like he’s wanted to for so long.

They go out for ice cream the next day. Their first date. It’s not an accident. Eddie sets his watch, picks Richie up at six. Richie with his hair pushed off his face and a wonky collar and most of the scuffs cleaned from his shoes. Richie with soft lips, a little dry, but not enough to stop Eddie wanting to kiss him. Until he opens his mouth.

“Did you seriously get a double scoop of vanilla?” he sounds disgusted. “’What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shut up, I like vanilla,” Eddie mutters, licking a stripe around the bottom scoop before it starts to drip.

“Yeah, I know, but the whole point of a double scoop ice cream, Eds, is that you don’t have to choose just one.” He’s waving his hands around. Eddie watches the ice cream in his hand, two scoops, one all striped in rainbow and one some absurdly rich looking chocolate thing, and he’s waiting for it to fall, but it doesn’t, it doesn’t even drip. He’s charmed, thinks Eddie. Charmed to never have an ice cream that drips. But really he knows that Richie’s hands will be disgustingly sticky by the end of the night and he’ll have to take him home and get him to scrub them before he’ll allow them near his skin. Because he’s not a fucking animal and he definitely won’t be kissing anyone with dirty hands. Not even Richie. His accidental, fake-real-boyfriend


	4. prom (bev/original female character ft. reddie)

Beverly Marsh is in her last year of high school when a new girl joins her class. She’s short, with round calves and long hair, shiny and black as a bird’s eye or an oil slick, and a mouth like a rose petal. Not that Beverly notices. No, she notices her dirty sneakers, her untied shoelaces, her massive cable-knit sweater. The way she licks her lips before she introduces herself. The way she pushes up the sleeves of her sweater, only to have them fall back down again, soft against her wrists. But maybe that’s the same thing as noticing her mouth. Bev chews on the end of her pencil, the taste of wood and graphite like smoke against her tongue.

“I’m May,” says the girl, stood at the front of the class. She scuffs her shoe against the lino floor and shrugs. “Hi.”

She sits at an empty desk down the back of the room and Bev, also at the back, stares at her bag when she drops it on the floor. It’s a safe thing to stare at, she thinks, just a lump khaki canvas, a frayed strap, May’s ankles in sports socks. Well. She turns to look out the window instead, focuses on the lines of water left behind by the rain. It’s been awhile since there was a new girl, she thinks. Maybe Greta will get to her first. She turns back.

“Hey,” she whispers, across the space between them. May looks up, brushes her hair from her face, expression blank. Her skin is like burnt gold. “I’m Beverly,” says Beverly.

They don’t become friends, not really, but they’re friendly. Beverly smiles at her in the hallways and sits at the desk next to hers in history and sometimes they talk about books they both like, or music, or their mutual hatred of shuttles in gym glass. Once upon a time she thought she had a crush on Bill, but now she thinks she’d just been in love with his certainty. Once upon a time she thought she had a crush on Ben, but now she thinks she’d just been in love with his words. She definitely has a crush on May.

It’s a distant sort of thing, like having a crush on a star, because May is beautiful and because Bev hasn’t allowed herself to like anyone in a long time. She takes girls by the wrist and kisses them in shadowed corners, clumsy and hidden, and they tell her to stay quiet, and she does. Hate exists in Derry even without evil for an excuse and it’s hard for a whole town to get out of a habit. May wears jeans with rips sometimes and Beverly falls in love with her knees. May wears crop tops sometimes and Beverly falls in love with the soft curve of her belly.

“I’m gonna marry her elbows,” she tells Richie, one day. They’re at the edge of the school field, sitting on the wet grass and passing Bev’s last cigarette between them.

“Just her elbows?” Richie asks. He purses his lips, trying to blow a smoke ring and failing miserably.

“Maybe her thighs,” sighs Bev. “There’s this freckle by her mouth too.”

“You should ask her to prom,” says Richie. “Do it fucking… dramatic, right, like… a banner or something. Dear May, I really want to marry your thighs, let’s get fucked up and make out, P.S. go to prom with me.”

“Talked to Eddie yet, Rich?”

“Every time I think I like you, you says some shit like  _ talked to Eddie yet, Rich _ .” He hands the cigarette back, licks his lips. “No, I haven’t talked to Eddie yet, because I hate his face.”

“Dear Eddie, I really want to marry your thighs, let’s get fucked up and make out,” says Beverly, voice flat. ”P.S. go to prom with me.”

“Dear May, I  _ may  _ be in love with your knees, kiss me on the mouth.”

“Dear Eddie, the way you talk about airborne pathogens gets me really hard. Wanna go to prom?”

“I hate you so fucking much.”

“You love me,” laughs Beverly. “We should go to prom together.”

“Yeah, alright.” He stubs out the cigarette, holds out his hand for Beverly to shake. “Romance is dead anyway.”

Bev makes her dress. It’s storm grey and bias cut, slippery and long and slight as a nightgown, and with her hair left short and wild, she thinks she looks kind of like a fairy. Not the sort that grants wishes but the sort that steals children, eats flesh, replaces babies in their cribs with sparkling things. (And she doesn’t think of anything with one thousand teeth that used to live in the sewers). Richie wants to wear a Hawaiian print suit and she has to pretend to think it’s a great idea to get him to change his mind. He wears black. He gets her a corsage, a dark red rose, and she makes him a bowtie out of the leftover fabric from her dress. They meet the others at Bill’s house before they go, because of course they do, because even if Richie and Bev are dressed to match, they were always going to go together as a group. 

They sit in the gazebo in Bill’s backyard, passing a flask between them. Bev tilts her head back to pour the liquor into her mouth, so she doesn’t fuck up her lipstick. Ben laughs at her and she pulls the fingers at him and he laughs harder. Mike makes a crown of daisies, places it carefully around Stan’s kippah, and Stan laughs and blushes so prettily Bev kind of wants to take a leaf out of Richie’s book and pinch his cheeks. Bill fucks up his bowtie over and over again until Eddie has to take over, muttering under his breath the whole time. Bev thinks that she’ll love them all forever, thinks that nothing in the world could happen that would change that.

“Prom then,” she says, standing up and clapping her hands.

It’s exactly what it should be. It’s bad punch and worse food and the most awkward dancing in the world. Richie hauls Eddie off to the dance floor immediately and poor Eddie looks equal measures terrified, furious, and ecstatic. Bev dances with Ben, because he’s the best at it, and because he holds his hand so lightly at her waist she feels like a different person. The sort of person who is always handled delicately. Mike and Stan and Bill stay at their table, in their own world. Richie spins Eddie in a circle and Bev catches his eye, winks at him, and he blushes so spectacularly she falls into Ben, helpless with laughter.

“Your May is here,” says Ben, and she laughs harder.

May is wearing pink tulle and aggressively winged eyeliner and Beverly has a crush. A crush on a star. She and Ben go back to their table and Stan makes swans out of napkins and Bev teaches Mike a trick with her lighter. Bill is asked to dance by almost every girl in their class and he looks like he’s been struck by lightning every time, but he dances with them all. Richie and Eddie never leave the dance floor. Beverly watches May dance, with her friends, not with boys, not with Greta Keene or any of the worst people of their school. She smiles while she’s dancing, eyes shut. Bev fiddles with her bag, traces the outline of her packet of cigarettes through the satin.

“Going for a smoke,” she tells the others, and she leaves.

Outside is done up in fairy lights, twinkling brightly against the dark. It’s cold and empty and Bev is glad for it. She spins on her toes, blows smoke into the air. She feels old suddenly, strange and ancient and tired. School will be over soon and she’s not sure what she wants to do. She could go to New York, try to make dresses, be chewed up and spit out. She could go somewhere else, write bad essays about good books, kiss girls and lick the taste of lipstick from her mouth. She knows it’ll be different outside Derry but she isn’t sure what kind of different.

“Can I bum a smoke?” comes a voice, hummed low. Bev knows her voice. She turns to May and smiles.

“This is my last,” she says. “We can share?”

So they sit under the fairy lights and share a cigarette and it’s completely different than sharing one with Richie. May is wearing darker lipstick than Bev and the colours mix on the filter and something about that makes Beverly feel like she’s about to take a step off a cliff, into stars. They pass the cigarette between them and their fingers touch and May laughs at that, sort of helpless sounding, and she stares at her lap, a mass of fluffy pink,and she licks her lips. Bev wants to touch her bare shoulder, thinks that if she did, she’d make sure to leave her fingerprints, so no one could doubt she’d been there.

“You ever read Shirley Jackson?” she asks, instead.

“Yeah,” says May, smiling. “Lesbians disguised as haunted house stories.”

Beverly laughs and nods and her cheeks are burning and her skin is humming and the lights above them look like stars. She stubs the cigarette out. May yawns. She has a gap between her two front teeth that is maybe the most charming thing Bev has ever seen.

“Your friend Eddie Kasprak is in my health class,” says May, then. “You think you can get him and Richie Tozier together? He won’t stop talking to me about like… his eyelashes and his mouth and shit. It’s kind of exhausting.”

“They’re as bad as each other,” hums Bev. “They’ve been dumb in love as long as I’ve known them.”

“He told me I should ask you to prom,” she says. “But I guess I chickened out.”

“Romance is dead anyway,” Beverly whispers. “But I would’ve said yes.”

May stands up then, crosses the two steps of space between them. She takes Bev’s hands, grins at the rose corsage and brings it to her mouth, blows at it, gently, so the petals move. Bev leans forward and kisses the freckle by her lips and then kisses her properly and they both taste like cigarettes and like bad prom punch and like lipstick. May’s mouth is as perfect as it looks, impossibly soft, impossibly full. Her hands slip on the fabric of Bev’s dress, against her waist, and then settle at the small of her back. Bev holds her shoulders, runs her hands up to her neck, curls her fingers around her jaw into her hair. There are lights above them and Bev has never kissed anyone like this, with the anticipation of more kisses, like this might last longer than the night. She hopes it does. She kisses May until she’s panting and she hopes that it will still exist when they go back to school on Monday.

“Let’s dance, okay?” May says, pulling away, breathless, and Bev nods, and May pulls her back inside and out onto the dance floor. Richie and Eddie are still there, foreheads pressed together, flushed and happy, and so are the rest of Bev’s friends, a knot of all the people she loves best, and prom is weird and out of time and it feels like somewhere okay to do this, not Derry, just a dance. The music is urgent and close and heavy. Bev drags May over to her friends, spins her in a circle so her dress flies out around her, a cloud of pink, and her heart feels set to burst and they’re all so beautiful, her friends, her family, and she’s seeing stars.


	5. cats (reddie)

Richie has it all planned out. First, he and Eddie will meet in the park. It’s warm, so Eddie will probably be wearing shorts, and he’ll be adorable, and Richie will be charming and effervescent and he’ll do his speech, the one he’s been planning for literally like, ten out of the sixteen years he’s been alive, and Eddie will probably blush and look at his feet, but then Richie will touch his cheek, maybe tilt his chin up with his hand, and then Eddie will say his name, will say something like:

“Oh, Richie, I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

And Richie will laugh, in a charming and effervescent sort of way, and say something like:

“I know, Eds.”

And then they’ll kiss and Stan and Bev will emerge from the bushes and let off the party poppers and shower them in streamers and it’ll be romantic and magical and totally and completely perfect.

That’s what’s supposed to happen. What actually happens is this:

“I’ve been stung by a bee,” says Bev, coming out of the bushes, Stan close behind her, looking pensive. “I’m going home.”

“You need to harden up, Bev,” says Richie, wringing his hands, glancing around to check that Eddie hasn’t appeared out of nowhere. “My life is on the line here.”

“Her hand is swelling up,” says Stan, and Beverly holds out her hand and okay, so it is swelling up a little bit, and it is weird and white-red and shiny looking, and she does look kind of freaked out. More freaked out than Beverly Marsh should ever look, because she’s easily the toughest one of all of them. Maybe it was a hornet. Maybe it was one of those bullet ants Eddie told him about in excruciating detail.

“Fuck,” says Richie. “Fucking… fuck. Fine. But leave the party poppers with Stan.”

“Do I really have to stay?” Stan looks pained, but he takes the party poppers Beverly gives him, and he waves sadly at her as she leaves.

“Okay, now get back in the bushes,” says Richie.

He hears Eddie before he sees him. He can’t hear what he’s saying, not really, but he’d know his voice anywhere, especially when he’s angry or frustrated, the way it wavers up to impossible heights, the way it sounds kind of like the edges of a scream sometimes, when he’s really panicked. But he’s supposed to be alone. He isn’t supposed to be angry or yelling or any of that and he’s definitely supposed to be alone. Richie squints across the park and then he sees him. Eddie Kaspbrak, gesturing wildly, surrounded by approximately ten stray cats.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?” whispers Richie.

“Richie!” yells Eddie, catching sight of him, starting this weird sort of hesitant run, because the cats keep crossing in front of his feet and almost tripping him up. “Richie, what the fuck?”

_ “What the fuck _ ,” says Richie again.

Eddie gets to him, flushed and panting and surrounded by cats. Most of them are black and white, cute patched things with white socks and smudged faces and proud tails, straight up in the air, but there’s a little ginger one too, purring aggressively and fighting the others to rub up against Eddie’s leg. Eddie looks panicked and kind of traumatised, but he is wearing shorts, and he is adorable.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” says Eddie, breathlessly. “There was only one at first, but it called its friends or some shit, I don’t know. They’ve been following me for three blocks.”

“You’re like… you’re like a Disney princess,” says Richie, kind of mesmerised by the cats, circling Eddie like he’s their sun. “Fucking… sleeping beauty or the girl with the shoe.”

“What if I’m allergic?” hisses Eddie. “What if I go into anaphylactic shock and  _ die _ ?”

“Don’t worry, Eds, I won’t let you die.” Richie crouches down, holds his hand out, and one of the cats approaches him, cautiously, but most of them seem reluctant to leave Eddie. A fucking Disney princess. What the fuck. “They’re kind of cute,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Eddie, quietly. “Yeah, I guess.” He looks down at the cats helplessly, leans down to pet a couple of them, and they chirp and meow and jump against his fingers. He laughs, softly, scratches one behind the ears.

“I love you,” says Richie, standing up. “I love you, you weird cat freak.”

“Oh,” says Eddie, and he straightens too, and he’s flushed still, and smiling still. “Well, yeah. Took you long enough, Trashmouth,” he says.

They kiss, holding hands, surrounded by cats, and Richie only pulls away so he can kiss Eddie on both cheeks, on his nose, and then Stan emerges from the bushes and pops one of the party poppers, and Eddie shrieks and throws himself backwards, away from Richie, trips and falls to the ground, and the colourful streamers fall over Richie alone. Stan starts to laugh, no, starts to  _ cackle _ , because he’s evil and has never done a single nice thing for Richie ever in his life. There are cats climbing all over Eddie now, and he’s giggling and trying to pet them all at the same time, and his hair is everywhere and okay, some of the streamers fell over him after all and the littlest cat is batting at them with its paw and okay it’s maybe the cutest shit Richie’s ever seen in his life, even if it didn’t go to plan. He’ll accept it. It’ll do. It’s pretty much totally and completely perfect.

“You know, party poppers can be dangerous,” says Eddie, from the ground, tickling one of the cats under the chin. “I’m pretty sure some kid shot his eye out with one once.”

“This is your future,” murmurs Stan, ominously, watching Eddie with a dubious expression on his face.

“I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” breathes Richie, and that’s definitely true.


	6. jealousy (reddie)

Eddie’s pretty sure that Richie’s bed is the most comfortable place in the world. It’s a nest of blankets and pillows and Eddie would never actually sleep in it, because he’d probably get trapped under a pillow and then suffocate and die, but it’s a good place to escape to, when his mother’s at her worst. Like today, she’s screaming and he’s feeling tired and sick and strange so he goes over to Richie’s, and he ignores the voice at the back of his mind that’s telling him that this isn’t really the kind of shit you do with a friend, use his bed for comfort, his room for comfort, him for comfort, because most of the time he doesn’t actually care. Because he needs it. He needs to feel safe.

So he throws himself, face first, onto Richie’s bed, crawling up to the top, grabbing two of his pillows and holding them over his head, nuzzling his face into the soft. It muffles Richie’s voice and the bright sun through the windows and the sound of the wind outside. He feels the bed move near his butt, Richie joining him, and then a loss of pressure as he steals one of the pillows.

“Wanna talk about it, Eddie baby?” He hears him ask, like he’s speaking through a dream. He’s been calling him that a lot lately,  _ Eddie baby _ , and he’s not sure how he feels about it. It’s somehow both better and worse than all the other nicknames.

“She thinks I’m dating someone,” says Eddie, muffled against the sheets. “Or fucking them I guess, whatever, she’s been leaving pamphlets about like… gonorrhea and syphilis all over the house and talking about how it rots your brain and makes you crazy and how dirty all the girls on my street are and it’s driving me crazy. Am I supposed to just listen to that? I feel like I should take Georgia Nichols across the road a… a fruit basket or some shit, you know? To apologise.”

“ _ Are  _ you dating someone?”

“Wow, totally not the point, Richie.” Eddie struggles out from under his pillow, throws it at Richie who looks deceptively innocent, who laughs when the pillow knocks his glasses sideways. Eddie misses the softness immediately, steals the one Richie stole off him, turns away to bury his face in it again.

“Just come live with me and my totally normal family,” says Richie. Eddie can only see grey but he can feel Richie moving again, jostling up against his legs. When he settles he’s closer, Eddie can feel the warmth of his body somewhere near his hips. He takes the pillow off his face for a moment, squints behind him. Richie is leaning against the wall, legs bridging Eddie’s butt. Eddie hides himself in the pillow again. “It’ll be cute, like camp, we can steal my mum’s vodka and do shots around a fire.”

“Only if I get to have your bed,” says Eddie.

“Obviously we’ll top and tail,” says Richie, scornfully. He tickles Eddie’s foot and Eddie kicks out, is immediately satisfied when he connects with some part of Richie’s body, making him squeak. “Okay, asshole, you’re sleeping on the floor,” says Richie. “I think you broke my hand.”

“I think you broke your hand against my foot.”

“Hey turn around, I don’t like talking to you when I can’t see your face.”

Eddie does as he’s asked, casting the pillow aside and sitting up, gathering blankets around him instead. It’s not that he’s cold, not exactly, it’s just that there’s something about Richie’s bed that makes him feel safer, more solid in his body, like he gets strength from the weave of the fabric. Plus, it smells nice. Like sun-warmed cotton, like something sweet but not too sweet, sugar and lemons.

Richie smiles at him, nose wrinkled and hair wild, and that makes Eddie feel safer too.

“So, why does she think you’re dating someone?” Richie asks then, and he sounds casual, uninterested, but his eyes are sharp behind his glasses and he’s tapping at Eddie’s knee like he’s trying to keep time in his head.

“What?” Eddie frowns. “Because she’s obviously unhinged.”

“Yeah, but like… is that a yes or a no? I’m… I mean I’m interested in whether or not my best friend is getting laid, like… you know, on the regular or whatever, obviously because you’re like… you’re like my child, Eds, y’know I took you under my wing when you were a tiny baby and now you’re a tiny um… man? And to know you’re getting some ass would bring me a lot of happiness. You know, as your metaphorical father.”

“Jesus, God, no I’m not dating anyone Richie and I sure as shit would not tell you if I was if you’re gonna be weird like this.”

“Oh.” Richie squirms in place and then crawls up the bed, closer, lying down, leaning his cheek against Eddie’s thigh and blinking up at him with his eyelashes all long and pretty and annoying. “Fucking someone then?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Get off me.” Richie doesn’t move, he nuzzles his face into Eddie’s hip. Because he’s a fucking nightmare of a human being.

“Nothing,” he says, and he looks up. “I’m just-” He licks his lips. His expression is so strange, somehow both open and defensive at the same time, like he’s fighting a battle in his head. If Eddie didn’t know any better he’d think-

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Holy shit, you’re jealous.”

“That is an outrageous statement,” Richie mutters. He turns away, throws an arm across Eddie’s hips. “Just let me die here, Eds.”

“Richie, get off me, sit the fuck up.”

“Is Georgia Nichols pretty?” he asks, not getting off him, not sitting the fuck up. “Do I have to kill her?”

“If you’re telling me… if you’re seriously actually telling me you like me right now you have to get the fuck up and look at me.”

Richie stays where he is, but the arm he has around Eddie tightens for a moment, and he lets out this massive sigh that shivers through his whole body. Eddie’s going to… he’s going to kick Richie’s ass, but he also kind of never wants to leave his bed. It’s too comfortable. Maybe Richie has it set up like this to trap him, like he knows Eddie needs an escape from the hard, straight lines of his house. Eddie doesn’t really mind, he’s kind of okay with being trapped. He’s kind of okay with Richie liking him too, if he does, if he’s not just talking shit.

It takes Richie ten minutes to start talking again, which Eddie’s pretty sure is a record. He just lies there, draws spirals on Eddie’s hip, the waistband of his jeans, occasionally touching his skin in a way that makes him shiver. Eddie lets his hand drift into Richie’s hair, digs the tips of his fingers into Richie’s scalp so he wriggles, makes a humming noise into the pillow he has his face buried in. And it’s nice, the quiet, but Eddie also kind of misses Richie’s voice, also kind of wants confirmation of what the hell is going on, because Richie’s always been clingy, with everyone, not just Eddie. Maybe he’s just playing a game. Eddie… well, he’d be disappointed if it was just a joke. It might take a little while to get over that.

“Okay,” says Richie, finally, pulls away and sits up properly, so they’re both just sitting at the head of the bed, against the wall. Eddie has his ankles crossed. Richie fidgets. “Okay, so say, hypothetically, I wanted to be the person to give you gonorrhea, how would you feel about that?”

Eddie laughs. “Hypothetically, I would think that was kind of cute. Disgusting, obviously, but cute.”

“Cute,” hums Richie. He’s staring at his hands in his lap. “Cute like, oh Richie’s so cute he’s the best friend I could ever ask for, or cute like, oh Richie’s the best looking guy in the world and I want to kiss him on the mouth.”

“Both, maybe,” hums Eddie. “Except you’re ugly.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, and I like you in spite of that.”

“ _ Right _ .”

Both of them are smiling, these stupid goofy smiles that would probably look so dumb to anyone who could see them, but Eddie doesn’t care. He’s pretty sure if he kisses Richie he’ll be able to use his bed all the time. He’s pretty sure if he kisses Richie he’s going to explode. He shuffles a little in place so he’s facing Richie properly. Richie who looks kind of startled, kind of like he’s been electrocuted. Eddie kisses him. Leans forward and kisses him, chastely, on the mouth, and Richie makes a noise like he’s dying and then chases him back, kisses him harder, hands fumbling at his collar, mouth warm and sweet, but not too sweet. Lemons and sugar.

They kiss for awhile, end up lying down together, surrounded by pillows and blankets and warmth. Eddie kisses Richie’s nose, bites at the rise of his cheek. Richie kisses Eddie’s hands, licks a stripe at the inside of his wrist so he shrieks. And then Richie’s hair gets way too staticky and weird and he keeps shocking Eddie when they touch and soon they’re both laughing too much to kiss so they just lie there, talking quietly.

“Honestly, I only like you for your bed,” says Eddie, tiptoeing his fingers across the bedspread.

“I fucking knew it,” hisses Richie, outraged to his core. “We’re over, Eddie baby, you’ve hurt me for the last time.”

“I like when you call me baby.”

“I…. um.” Richie splutters to a halt, cheeks pink. “I-”

Eddie grins, swoops in to kiss him, just quick and sweet, but Richie lunges at him, pulls him close and hugs him tight, like he might never let go, and Eddie thinks it might not just be the bed. It might be Richie too. Someone he needs to feel safe. The most comfortable place in the world.


	7. mamihlapinatapei (reddie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mamihlapinatapei - the look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move

It’s been going on for awhile now, everyone knows it. Bev calls it  _ that thing Eddie and Richie have _ and Mike calls it  _ just go on a date already this is stupid  _ and Richie always laughs them off, but Eddie can tell it sticks with him. It’s because of the way they are with one another, the way their relationship is on the verge of changing. It’s because their friends see everything and know everything and that’s fine, they’re just scared. Or Eddie is at least, Richie might actually just not realise what’s going on, but he’s pretty sure he does. He’s almost ninety percent sure he definitely does. He touches Eddie’s shoulder when they talk a lot more than he used to. Leans into him even though he’s taller, heavier, like he knows Eddie wouldn’t ever let him fall, which is fucking dumb because Eddie would definitely let him fall, but it’s kind of cute too. Eddie likes it anyway. Still. He’s scared.

So nothing happens. Nothing happens and their friends get all quietly outraged about it, but they don’t do anything either. Stan narrows his eyes at Richie a lot, especially when he has his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Ben shakes his head at Eddie a lot, especially when he links arms with Richie on the days they walk home from school. Whatever. It’s none of their business. It’s just that… Eddie knows that once it starts, it’s going to take over everything. Because he’s been so in love with Richie for so long that if anything happened, it couldn’t  _ not _ be his whole life. And honestly, he kind of wants to do other stuff too, not just kiss some asshole’s trash mouth. 

Well.  _ Well _ . 

Eddie can see it getting closer. Can see it when they start spending more time together, alone, just the two of them. Watching movies or doing homework or just sitting in Richie’s room and talking shit. Richie always throws his legs over Eddie’s lap and Eddie always plays with Richie’s hair and it’s. It’s too late. There’s no way it isn’t going to happen. He’s fucked, really. Richie Tozier has fucked him up totally and he’s pretty sure he should be pissed off about it, but he’s mostly just excited. Excited and absolutely fucking terrified and completely unable to do anything about because he’s also sixteen and awkward as hell and his mother would literally murder him if she found out he was having feelings about Richie Tozier and he doesn’t want to totally fuck up his relationship with his only family even if she’s a nightmare. There are… there are too many variables. He wants to ask Stan to make him a probability tree or some shit. Chances of fucking up my entire life with a kiss: 73%. Except Stan would probably just stare at him and tell him that kissing Richie, while a disgusting idea on its own, might actually be perfect for Eddie. Because he wants them together more than anyone, for some reason. Fucking Stan. 

And then, obviously not totally out of nowhere but still kind of unexpected, it’s The Day. Eddie isn’t totally sure how he knows, but they’re sitting on the edge of Richie’s bed one afternoon and something in the air changes and suddenly Eddie realises what’s going to happen. Richie’s fidgeting, keeps running his hand through his hair, keeps licking his lips, keeps chewing on the edges of his fingernails. And Eddie thinks that all he needs to do is move. Just move his hand from where it’s resting on his knee, and maybe put it on Richie’s knee instead, maybe take his hand, maybe throw himself into his lap, except the thought of doing any of that is so completely excruciating Eddie is totally frozen. He stares hard at the band-aid curled over the middle knuckle of his pointer finger instead. Richie had put it on for him, when he clipped the door with his fist coming out of history class, telling some story that required expansive hand gestures. He hadn’t really noticed it was bleeding until Richie grabbed his hand and hustled him to the school nurse and then sat him down on the sick bed, carefully put the band-aid around his finger. His tongue had been poking out, just a little, in concentration, and it was… well. Eddie’s frozen.

Next to him, Richie kicks out his feet, lets his heels fall back heavily against the bed. He sighs, this hugely expansive expression of air, like he’s come to the end of the world. Like he’s accepted his fate and is going to step off into the void. Eddie thinks it’s a little dramatic, but he supposes that’s just Richie. Just him too. He presses the curved end of the band-aid a little more carefully down against his skin. Richie sighs again.

“Eddie,” he says, then. Eddie freezes again. “Eds, Eddie-”

“What,” presses Eddie. “What do you want?”

“I’m… I’m sending vibes.” Eddie turns to look at him and he has his eyes narrowed, ninety percent eyelashes behind his glasses, and he’s staring at Eddie kind of intensely, like he can see through his clothes to skin. “I mean, you know I’m sending vibes and I know I’m sending vibes and you’re definitely also sending vibes, why is nothing happening?”

“I… I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” lies Eddie. He looks away from Richie, clasps his hands together in his lap. The edge of the band-aid is curling up, it’s lost its stick. He wants to press it down again, wants to lunge at Richie and kiss him senseless, wants to throw the duvet over them both so it’s a little easier. In the dark and soft.

“You’re a goddamn liar,” mutters Richie, sitting back. “I’m not gonna spell it out for you.”

“Good, I don’t wanna know what weird shit you’re thinking about,” mutters Eddie, not really knowing why he says it, unable to stop. “Don’t think about me at all, actually, Richie, because it’s kinda-”

“They’re kissing vibes,” interrupts Richie, leaning forward again. “Like… kissing you vibes. Us. Kissing. That’s what I’m trying to send you.”

“What happened to not spelling it out? God, that’s really… you kinda just did that, you just explained it completely and-”

“Why aren’t we kissing yet?”

“Who says I want to?”

“I’m gonna kick your ass, I swear.”

“You can try, asshole.”

They fall into silence. Eddie’s smiling, can’t really help it, is grinning at his hands in his lap, at the band-aid, at his bare knees, the soft fabric of his shorts, his t-shirt puddling at his hips. He glances across at Richie, who is frowning at the middle distance, like he can see something in the air. He’s chewing on his lower lip. Eddie loves his teeth, crookedly charming, loves the way he sucks one side of his lower lip into his mouth to worry at it. Doesn’t love the dark spots that bloom there when he bites off the skin too deep. Blood and bruises. But Richie’s head is full to bursting sometimes, Eddie knows that, knows that chewing on things helps sometimes. His eyebrows are hidden behind the rims of his glasses but Eddie loves them too. Didn’t know you could love eyebrows until Richie pushed his hair back one day and did a terrible James Bond impression, one eyebrow arched so stupidly Eddie fell in love. Gross. Terrible.

“So do we fight now?” Richie asks, startling Eddie badly “Or do we kiss?”

“We can do both, maybe,” says Eddie.

He wriggles around until he’s on his knees, turned toward Richie. Richie who now looks totally terrified. Richie who pushes back his shoulders, tilts his chin like this is something physical he really will have to fight. Well. Eddie supposes it is something physical really. he thinks Richie’s hair is stupid. His mouth is stupid. His hands, on either side of his hips, are gripping the duvet stupidly tight. Eddie grins at him, as reassuringly as he can manage, but that just seems to make Richie look even more terrified. 

“I’m not gonna bite you,” says Eddie (except he might, actually). “What happened to your vibes? Like, excuse me if I-”

“You’re excused,” whispers Richie.

“Oh my god.”

Eddie kisses him. Lunges at Richie and grabs him by the collar and kisses him. Because both of them are scared but who cares? There are scarier things than kissing. Than love. Richie squeaks, touches Eddie’s waist, hesitantly at first, but then firm and solid and close. Eddie parts Richie’s lips with his tongue, lets his hands drift from his collar to his throat, his jaw, his hair. He loves Richie’s hair, stupid and thick and wild. His glasses, knocking against Eddie’s forehead, making him laugh against his mouth. Richie’s hands slide under Eddie’s t-shirt, his thumbs drag against Eddie’s hipbones, to his waist. Eddie settles properly into his lap, pulls away. Richie sighs, not like the end of the world, but like he’s extremely satisfied he’s made the correct decision. 

“Same,” murmurs Eddie, quietly, kissing him again, briefly, the corner of his mouth, the dark patch at his bottom lip. 

“You’re not allowed to leave,” says Richie. “Have to stay here forever now.”

“Maybe.” Eddie smiles, touches Richie’s jaw, then where his pulse is at his throat, quick and wild. 

“Not actually giving you a choice, Eds,” he continues. “I keep all my lovers locked in a tower.” 

“I knew this was gonna ruin my life.” 

“The best things always do.” Richie grins at him, bright and crooked and happy, and Eddie thinks, oh well, maybe kissing will do. His mother will get over it and anyway, he has other family, really. Stan’ll be overjoyed.


	8. baisemane (benverly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baisemane - a kiss on the hand

It takes Bev a little while to catch up to Ben. He’s been runaway heart-struck since she first talked to him, open pages of feelings, and even though she knows that, has known that always, it still takes a little while for her to settle into her feelings. She’s sixteen and she’s sitting at his desk listening to him talk about a book he’s found on buildings, about tumble-down architecture and about the way the straight lines of buildings fit together and about how he’s been dreaming up places of his own recently, beautiful places in concrete and white light. Far more than popsicle stick towers. And he’s gesturing wildly with his hands, expansive and excited, something he doesn’t often do because he’s sometimes uncomfortable in his body, doesn’t like to make himself seem bigger than he is, but he’s comfortable enough with her, and he’s tripping over his tongue and his cheeks are flushed and happy and Bev is thinking that she’d like to kiss him maybe. His cheeks, his hands, his mouth.

“Benjamin Hanscom,” she says, and he stutters to a stop, eyes wide. “Ben, Haystack, darling, do you wanna go on a date with me sometime?”

Their first date is to a New Kids on the Block concert, of course, and it’s perfect. Bev finds it so easy, to fall into him, to tuck herself up against his side. A background of sugar pop. Like it might not have been easy when they were younger because they were both so caught up in being lonely. And at the end of the night, she takes his hand and kisses it, and he blushes, and when he’s finished blushing he leans forward and kisses her cheek, and she blushes too of course, and he spins her on her toes against the night air.

They hang out together in Ben’s room, most of the time, and they listen to music. Bright pop and sharp synths, everything about forever young love, songs Ben’s cut from the radio (the sort of songs that Richie would roll his eyes at because he likes stuff like the angsty whining Violent Femmes and Depeche Mode with empty aching lyrics). Ben gives her the tapes when they’re finished, painstakingly made, labelled with her name and the day of the week or the month or what they mean to him.  _ Beverly’s Wednesday songs, songs for May mornings, Friday (I’m in love) _ . She keeps them in a painted box under her bed and she opens them even when she isn’t listening to anything, just to follow the hinges of the tape cases with a finger, just to look at the way the ink from his pen pools at the joints of the the letters.

Sometimes she thinks he’s too sweet for her. Sometimes she cups his face in her hands, curves her palms around the roundness of his cheeks, and she says:

“Benjamin Hanscom, how’d you get so sweet?” And he blushes, every single time, even though they’ve been a couple for forever now, and he turns his face a little so he can kiss her palm.

“Must be something to do with you,” he mumbles, mouth tickling at her skin.

“Must be everything to do with you,” she retorts, and he touches one of the red curls of her hair and then kisses her, gently, and then takes her by the wrist and pulls her into dancing. Sugar pop, bright synths, and their bodies moving together, earnestly and unabashedly in love.


	9. strikhedonia (reddie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> strikedonhia - the pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”

Their afternoon starts with an argument about bubblegum. Eddie thinks it’s stupid, thinks it’s such a fucking stupid thing to be arguing about, but can’t really stop, because he’s arguing with Richie and he’s never been able to back down from a fight with Richie. Because Richie’s obnoxious. Like a chihuahua, except big and floppy and evil instead of small and pointy and evil. Maybe like one of those fluffy white dogs with the curly tails that are super adorable but secretly the fucking devil. Richie Tozier: Samoyed demon. Obsessed with getting Eddie to swallow bubblegum.

“Look, I’m not gonna do it,” says Eddie, staring intensely at the tiny purple-wrapped parcel sitting in Richie’s palm. “I don’t care if it’s bullshit, like… why risk it? Right? Why risk a fucking… a blocked intestine? It doesn’t make any sense. Peter Hardwick from history class told me he knew a kid who-”

“Eddie, Eds, Peter Hardwick is an idiot,” interrupts Richie, impatiently. “You will shit it out. You will shit it out and that’s it, no one’s gonna die, no one’s intestine is gonna be blocked cos of one piece of bubblegum. Just… just swallow it, I dare you.”

“Since when do I give a shit about your dares?” Eddie takes the gum from Richie’s hand, squints at it. “Like, I’ll have the gum, because it’s delicious, but I’m not swallowing it.”

“This is so weird,” murmurs Stan, from his perch on a log at their feet, staring up at them with eyes full of despair. “Why are you guys always so weird?”

And honestly, Eddie’s about ninety percent sure that swallowed gum doesn’t sit in your stomach for seven years. And about ninety six percent sure that only an absurd amount of swallowed gum would ever block your intestine. But that’s kind of not the point. The point is that Richie wins arguments far too often, just by being persistent and annoying, and Eddie is sick of it. He turns the piece of gum over in his hand, carefully unwraps it. He always liked gum that was wrapped up like a little present, folded squares of waxed paper. He’s not going to let Richie ruin that.

“So, you’re telling me that in seventeen years of life, you’ve never swallowed a piece of gum?” Richie is incredulous again, fierce-eyed and outraged, eyes on Eddie’s hands like he’s worried about that Eddie’s going to cheat, even though he’s not even playing. Because he’s not going to swallow the gum. 

“No,” he mutters. “I swallowed it once when I was ten and my mum gave me the Heimlich maneuver til I threw up stomach acid.”

“Well that’s your fucking problem then.” Richie sounds viciously angry suddenly. Angry like Richie almost never is, angry like he pretty much only is with Eddie’s mother, when he isn’t making shitty jokes about being in love with her. Eddie scowls at him and he glares right back and Stan is still sitting between them looking like he’s being very slowly and painfully murdered.

But it’s Stan who then says, “do it to beat your mum,” so quiet and mild that Eddie can only stare at him.

“Exactly, listen to Stanny,” says Richie, with great satisfaction, and okay, maybe that’s an acceptable reason to do this. It’s not like Eddie hasn’t thrown himself into danger to spite his mum before. Stuff way more dangerous than this. Literal life threatening nightmares. Well. That might have been something to do with friendship.

“Well, if it’s Stan who’s asking I’ll do it,” says Eddie, with a sniff, looking out across the quarry water instead of Richie who seems close to bursting at the seams. “But if I die… if I swallow the gum and I die, you better cry for-fucking-ever, Richie, or Stan will kill you.”

“You’re not gonna die,” whispers Richie, eyes wide.

“I probably won’t kill you,” says Stan, quietly. 

“Are you really gonna swallow it?” 

“Obviously not until it’s lost all its flavour, asshole.”

“This is so fucking stupid,” mutters Stan.

So Eddie puts the bubblegum in his mouth and he chews it and it’s grape flavoured, because grape candy is superior to every other flavour of candy, except maybe sometimes cherry. And he blows bubbles, because he’s the fucking best at it out of all of them and always has been, no matter what lies Beverly Marsh tries to spin. And he hasn’t had bubblegum in ages, because there’s this weird thing that happens to candy when you get older, where suddenly it seems childish to want to eat certain delicious things. Seventeen years old is far too old for bubblegum or lollipops or chocolate milk and suddenly the only flavour of gum that’s acceptable is peppermint or, even worse, spearmint, and that’s only for bad breath. Blowing bubbles with that sort of gum doesn’t even work. So Eddie gets the most out of it and Richie watches him with narrowed eyes, like he’s worried Eddie’s going to surreptitiously spit it out and claim he swallowed it, which is bullshit because Eddie doesn’t cheat. He blows a particularly big bubble, pulls the fingers at Richie who breaks a little, grins and turns away.

He takes his time with it too, gets all the flavour out of the gum before he even thinks about swallowing, and then adds a full minute more because Richie’s dancing on his toes, spinning in distracted circles, like he actually cares if Eddie swallows it. Like it actually means something and isn’t just something stupid to pass time. He tries to get Stan to stand up and dance with him and is firmly rejected. He tries to get Eddie to dance with him and Eddie lets him spin him in a circle, but only once.

And when it tastes kind of like old plastic, he swallows it, and it’s disgusting, but it’s also kind of gratifying. Eddie Kaspbrak: bubblegum master. Not sick. Never sick. Better than his mother ever told him, as good and whole and healthy as his friends always knew. He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue so Richie can see that it’s gone, turns and shows Stan too.

“Congratulations,” says Stan.

“I love you so fucking much,” says Richie, like Eddie’s cured a disease or won a prize or got 100 on a test, not just swallowed a piece of gum. And honestly, Eddie wants to glare at him, wants to kick him in the shin for being such a sap, but he can’t help grinning back. Can’t help the way his cheeks prickle, the way he knows he’s probably scarlet from his hairline to his collarbones. Can’t help the way his stomach still drops when Richie picks him up and spins him around, the way he buries his face in Richie’s necks and laughs against his skin. Because, well, it’s Richie. And Eddie’s never been able to resist affection from Richie.

“This is why I don’t usually hang out with you two alone,” says Stan.

Their day ends with Richie and Eddie walking home together. Mike had picked up Stan from the quarry and whisked him off to star watch or bake bread or some other disgustingly romantic thing, so it’s just them, against twilight. Both of them are chewing bubblegum and every single bubble Richie blows bursts instantly, getting into his hair and on his cheeks. And Eddie should think it’s disgusting, but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s thinking about Richie’s hand, holding his, and the way they always swing their arms between them, just because. And he’s thinking about how he’s going to kiss Richie’s nose pretty soon, because it’s a nice sort of nose. 

“So, are we gonna talk about how you basically confessed your love for me because I swallowed a piece of grape Hubba Bubba?” he asks, unable to resist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Richie airily, because he’s the devil. A Samoyed demon.

“You love me,” says Eddie, happily, elbowing him in the side.

“I love your mum,” says Richie.

“That’s not gonna work, trash boy. Stan is my witness, you love me  _ so fucking much _ .”

“I say a lot of things, Eds, most of it’s meaningless.”

“Love you too, Rich,” says Eddie.

“I know,” says Richie. 


	10. makeup (bev/eleven)

The first time they do their makeup together, Bev and Eleven are fourteen. It’s a mixture of stuff, old lipsticks and eyeshadows Bev’s aunt gave them and the bright plastic kids makeup you can buy cheap at the pharmacy, a set of blushes and eyeshadows set into a pink heart shaped compact and tubes of body glitter in five colours and nail polish that glows in the dark. And being fourteen Bev feels too old for it, but it gives her a thrill anyway, everything sweetly candy-scented and fake.

“What goes first?” Eleven asks, eyes wide, hands hovering over the products spread out across Bev’s dressing table. 

“Whatever you want, El,” says Bev, picking up a tube of brick red lipstick. “i’m gonna use this.” 

“Let’s match,” says Eleven, lips pursed, a decision made. 

Eleven is far newer to it than Bev is, so Bev helps. with her hands as gentle as she can make them, she draws electric blue along the edges of Eleven’s eyelids, wings it out at the corners, pinky finger resting against her cheek to keep the line steady. Mascara then, that Eleven blinks through and smudges badly. Neither of them really care, maybe it’s a part of it, maybe it’s a smokey eye, a deliberate sort of mess. Then Bev pats blush into both of their cheeks, smudged rose, and she draws a soft fluffy brush along the high points of Eleven’s cheekbones, a moonglow highlight. 

When they’re done, they stare at each other in the mirror, pretending like they’re aliens. Pretending like they’re as young as they should be. The sort of young that girls are when they don’t grow up in the places they have, with the people they have. Bev sticks out her tongue and Eleven pouts extravagantly and they take a photo together with Bev’s polaroid camera, a blurred portrait of two girls just starting to figure out who they are. Eleven takes the photo, sticks it in a book she has of things like that. A postcard from Mike and a rose Joyce Byers gave her, pressed between the pages. 

It’s a regular thing after that. Eleven comes over when she’s feeling strange, or sick, or when she’s had bad dreams. She climbs the tree outside Bev’s window, taps on the glass, and Bev lets her in and they sit on her bed and do their makeup, not necessarily to make themselves look any kind of way, but for the routine of it, and for the calm. Silence and soft brushes and closeness. Bev isn’t sure where Eleven lives, and whenever she asks El just shrugs, just smiles, and she stays there the night, and they fall asleep holding hands.

(She lives in a hotel, paid for with money sent to her by a police officer. She keeps his business card in her book, with the postcard, with the rose, and his home phone number is scrawled on the back, but she never calls it.)

They get older and makeup starts to mean something else. Bev wears brick red lipstick to school sometimes, and laughs when she’s told to take it off. Eleven wears a thousand bright plastic clips in her short hair, and the lace dresses Bev makes her, and green tinted lipstick that no one says anything about, because Eleven can turn scary sometimes. She likes to look like an alien, to look just as strange on the outside as she feels on the inside. Sixteen years old and sweet and earnest and vicious. Green lipstick and too many hair clips and glitter on her cheeks. She has friends. She talks to Mike on the phone at least once a week and she tells him about the boy she’s met who looks like him but with wilder hair, wilder everything, and she tells him about Bev, who looks like starlight, like fire in a forest, like a summer storm. Bev who kisses her on the cheek sometimes, to leave a smudged red mark that Eleven doesn’t wash off until she absolutely has to. Mike tells her it sounds like she has a crush and she scoffs down the line and blushes and twirls the spiral cord around her finger.

At Bev’s house, sometimes the boys are there when they do their makeup. they’re better at it now, and Eleven doesn’t need Bev’s help anymore, but she still asks for it and Bev still does it, swiping her fingers under Eeven’s eyes to get rid of fallen mascara, poofing her with a powder puff to make her laugh, touching her thumb to her lower lip, spreading out the colour there. She does it for the boys too, if they ask her. Sooty eyeliner for richie, who wants to look like a badass but mostly just kind of looks doe-eyed and pretty. Matching highlights for Stan and Mike, in pearl and gold, that they take off immediately after taking a photo, Mike licking his fingers and smudging at Stan’s cheeks, both of them laughing. A fevered blush for Eddie, who is feeling sort of like maybe he needs to look as sick as his mother tells him he is, but the angry slope of his eyebrows kind of mess that up and Richie pinches his cheeks and whispers in his ear and kisses his hand and he sighs and shrugs and is fine again anyway.

They collect more polaroids. Bev and Eleven with vicious contours, fierce eyebrows, or Bev and Eleven in candy colours, drawn on hearts for beauty spots, neon green lips and pink eyelashes, or Bev and Eleven in shades of brown and red, soft as autumn leaves. Eleven puts them in her book. Bev keeps one, Eleven with her eyes shut, laughing, her false eyelashes gone astray and a scarlet kiss on her cheek. Eleven gets a job at the Aladdin with Richie, and she wears her face bare, and she likes that just as much.

In Bev’s room, seventeen years old, they kiss after a thousand years of waiting. Eleven has no makeup on and Bev is halfway through taking hers off too, one eye done in sparkles, an eyeliner star on one cheek. Eleven is sitting on her bed, humming to herself, staring at the ceiling, and Bev gets caught, watching her in the mirror instead of using her makeup wipe. Eleven grins, leans back on her elbows, flutters her fingers in a wave, and Bev thinks,  _ fuck it _ , and jumps onto the bed too. Kisses her, even though she tastes of makeup remover, even though one of her eyes is still heavy with mascara. Kisses her because she’s her best friend, this girl who came out of nowhere, who exists nowhere, who is everything to Bev. Kisses her and laughs when she kisses back. When she pulls back, Eleven looks startled, looks happily scared, and she pokes at Bev’s cheek with a finger. 

“You have half a face,” she says, quietly. “It’s pretty.” 

“You’re pretty,” says Bev, who still can’t really take that word as anything other than something her father threw at her, though she knows it’s not the same from El, could never be. “Quit it.” 

“No,” says Eleven, happily, and Bev kisses her again, once more, before taking off the rest of her makeup, and turning off the light. 

(They fall asleep holding hands and wake up holding hands and kiss again and do their makeup.)


	11. sphallolalia (reddie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sphallolalia - flirtatious talk that leads nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by a scene in a show called green wing

Eddie can’t remember much of the night before. Just flashes of music, five seconds of one song, over and over, and socked feet on wooden floors, and dragging his hand along the wallpaper as he went down the hall, so he wouldn’t fall. He remembers Stan crying when Mike made them all grilled cheese, Ben and Bev dancing to Bjork, spinning until they got dizzy and had to sit down, Bev’s arms around Ben’s neck. He remembers Richie and Bill doing a duet together, _ I got you babe _ , arms slung around one another’s shoulders. He remembers… he remembers the cold tiles of the bathroom under his knees, someone close to him, their skin… a fall of hair and white light and-

“Th’ fuck,” he mumbles, and the words feel gritty against his throat. “ _ Ugh _ .”

He sits up, lets the blanket draped over him fall to the ground. He’s on the couch in Bill’s living room and his head is full of cotton wool. There’s an ache at his shoulder blades, a headache behind his eyes, some thick and sticky feeling at his throat, his mouth, like he’d been drinking syrup instead of some shitty concoction of Richie’s. Maybe it had been syrup. Maybe it had been syrup and ethanol and had killed several million of his brain cells. He rubs blearily at his face, thinking that he’s pretty sure he can feel them, the dead cells, burnt brown against grey matter. He’s never drinking again. He’s never drinking anything Richie makes ever again. Where the fuck is everyone?

“They’ve gone to get breakfast,” says Richie, appearing out of nowhere, reading his mind. “I told them to let you sleep.”

“Thanks Rich,” mumbles Eddie, scratching his hand through his hair, sitting up a little straighter. He regrets it immediately, the movement sending a wave of nausea through his body, a cloud spreading in his head. He licks his lips. He’s pretty sure he’s going to have to drink an entire bottle of mouthwash to make his mouth feel less like the insides of a drain.

Richie looks weirdly unaffected by their night. Still in the same clothes, his jeans, more rips than denim, and a rumpled t-shirt and mismatched socks, but clean-faced and bright eyed behind his glasses. His hair is a mess, of course, and his hands seem a little shaky, but maybe that’s about right for Richie too. Clean and dirty all at once. A deliberate sort of mess.

“How do you look like that?” Eddie mutters anyway, gesturing vaguely at Richie’s face. “Like no one’s taken a shit in your skull.”

“Because I didn’t drink any of Ben’s punch,” Richie laughs.

“ _ Ben  _ made that?” Eddie groans. “What the fuck, it tasted like cherry cough syrup and death. I thought you made it.”

“Pff, I’m an angel compared to Haystack,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’d never give you alcohol poisoning, Eds.”

“You liar, you were the first person who ever got me drunk, on fucking… fucking gin and tonic because you thought I’d appreciate the medicinal qualities of quinine.” He hadn’t been wrong. And it’d been a good night, actually, the two of them in Richie’s room, listening to music and complaining about school. A thousand years ago. 

Eddie knows there’s something important he’s forgetting. Richie is striding around the room like he’s testing boundaries, like he’s never been there before, touching vases and books on shelves and dragging his hand along the top of the TV. Eddie watches him, the stupid rips in his jeans, eighty percent of his thighs on display. He calls them his slut jeans and Eddie calls them his nut hole jeans, but they hadn’t started out like that. They’d been normal jeans once, but he’d worried at small frays, pulled them wider, distracted in class or worried about his mum or angry with Eddie’s, not that he’d ever say that was why. Better than pulling himself to pieces, Eddie thought.

“Go fix your face,” says Richie, then, turning back. “You look disgusting.”

“Speak for yourself, trashmouth,” hums Eddie, even though he knows he’s right.

In the bathroom, Eddie brushes his teeth, peers at himself in the mirror. He looks pale, strange, the skin under his eyes seems too soft, delicate, like it might bloom into bruising any time. His skin is dry, peeling a little at the edges of his nose, the corners of his mouth. He cups his palms, holds them under the faucet, fills them with water, washes his face. There’s something pulling at his memory. He’d been in the bathroom near the end of the night, with someone else, touching their skin, his hand against their cheek. It feels important. More important than anything that happens on a drunk night should be. He remembers… what? He fidgets, touches his lower lip with his thumb, presses against it lightly, muscle memory. Shit. Holy shit. Holy shitting fuck. He throws himself back out into the living room. Richie is in the center of the room, spinning on his toes.

“Richie, did I…” He tugs his shirt a little straighter. “Did I kiss someone last night?”

“Sure did, lover boy,” says Richie, tilting his head back, grinning at the ceiling.

“Who?  _ How _ ? It was on the cheek right or… or… because I can’t have kissed Mike or Stan because they’re… or Ben or Beverly so… what the fuck? What the  _ fuck _ , did I kiss  _ Bill _ ?”

“You kissed me,” says Richie. His expression doesn’t change, he’s still smiling, this gentle thing, not bright, like sun over water.

“How?” Eddie asks again, through numb lips. He steps closer to Richie, grabs his sleeve and pulls, and Richie turns to him, sways closer still.

“You were in the bathroom, being sick,” he says, quietly.

“And you came in,” whispers Eddie. He’s still holding onto Richie’s sleeve.

“And I came in,” Richie agrees. “I thought you might need someone to hold your hair back, cos I knew that if you got vomit in it you’d have like a Stan-level nervous breakdown.”

“I would’ve cried,” murmurs Eddie. “I would’ve cried and then maybe cut all my hair off.”

“So I came in and you were on the floor and I sat with you and were like  _ I don’t wanna throw up I don’t wanna throw up _ even though you already had and I… I pushed your hair back… like this.”

Richie’s hand moves, slow and cautious, and Eddie kind of wants to grab it, make him move faster, because this is fucking stupid, he’s not a scared puppy, but then Richie is there, and his hand is in his hair, pushing it back, fingers light and cool. A little hysterically, Eddie thinks he’s going to be sick again, he’s going to be sick all over Richie’s sunset coloured t-shirt, but he swallows instead, sways even closer. Their chests are almost touching. Eddie’s head is air and waves. Richie’s mouth looks soft. A mouth he’s kissed already, how strange.

“And then…” he whispers.

“And then you said  _ Richieeeeee _ ,” Richie coos, smiling a little. “And then you put your hand on my cheek like…”

“Like this,” murmurs Eddie, and he does it, reaches up and slides his palm across Richie’s cheek, curls the tips of his fingers over his jaw, rubs his thumb along the ridge of his cheekbone, over the freckles there, like a galaxy in shades of taupe and brown. Richie’s eyes close, briefly, a soft fluttering of his eyelashes. He licks his lips.

“And then your eyes went a bit fuzzy,” he says, softly. “And then…”

“And then I kissed you,” says Eddie, a little impatiently, pushing forward, bumping against Richie’s chest. Their feet shuffle against the floor, the clumsy scratch of nervous steps, jostling against each other. Eddie’s feet are bare but Richie’s aren’t. “Definitely… definitely not on purpose.”

“Definitely not,” says Richie, gently mocking.

Eddie can’t stop looking at his mouth, the mouth he kissed, swollen a little from where he chews at it, nervous sometimes, caught up in his thoughts, the same sort of thing as ripping his jeans. His hand is still in Eddie’s hair, moving rhythmically, nails blunt against his scalp. His other hand hovers at Eddie’s waist, not quite touching, just moving over the fabric of his t-shirt, wash-worn and soft.

“And you kissed me back,” says Eddie, almost a question but not quite. He feels a little bit like he’s been hypnotised. Hypnotised by Richie’s weird hair and his freckles and his hands and his goddamn mouth. A mouth Eddie has kissed. What the fuck.

“And I… I untangled myself from your disgusting vomit hair,” says Richie, and he does so, pulls back, and Eddie stumbles, thrown off balance by the lack of contact, and his forehead collides with Richie’s nose and Richie’s hands settle at his elbows, automatically, to keep him from falling. Eddie laughs, nervous and unsure, and he rocks back on his feet.

“But you kissed me back,” he says again, quietly insistent. He needs to hear it. He needs to hear it or he’ll die. Kill himself with whatever is left of Ben’s death punch. All he can see is Richie’s mouth, a mouth he’s kissed, a person he’s loved since forever. Like family, but also definitely, definitely not. 

He remembers lying on Richie’s bed with him, drinking gin and tonic, two years ago, not a thousand, and they’d held hands then, and Richie had rolled over, mumbled nonsense into Eddie’s shoulder, mouth warm, and… and nothing else had happened. Maybe Ben’s death punch was a necessary catalyst for this. Liquid courage. 

Richie’s hands fall from Eddie’s arms to his sides and then they aren’t touching at all. Eddie wishes they were, wants nothing more than to grab Richie’s hands, pull him back to him. But Richie looks a little strange, a little jittery, his hands hangover-shaky, curled up, picking at the fraying edges of one of the rips in his jeans, over his thigh, weaving through the ragged strands.

Richie’s eyes close, just for a second, and then he reaches forward again, takes Eddie’s hand, turns it over in his, thumb brushing across the heel of his palm.

“And then I kissed you back,” he whispers, eyes on their hands, where they’re touching. “Obviously accidentally.”

They are so close again, so close they’re sharing air, warm breath,the peppermint of toothpaste. Eddie just needs to rock forward, shift his weight from his heels to his toes, and they might kiss. Might kiss again.

“And then…” he says.

“And I then I left,” says Richie, and he steps back properly this time, a wild grin and a blush cresting his cheeks, putting space between them that Eddie automatically and desperately wants to claim back.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” he whines, reaching out and snagging the collar of Richie’s t-shirt, pulling him back. And he’s laughing then, grinning all crooked, all sparkly and teasing and so fucking annoying Eddie regrets kissing him ever. Will probably never kiss him again. Definitely not. Not until he deserves it.

Still. Still, he bumps into Eddie gently, and his arms come up and over Eddie’s shoulders, and he looks down at him and Eddie thinks, well. Okay then. Okay, this might happen. After a disgusting night of vomit and syrup. Maybe that’s the only way it could ever happen. Maybe that’s exactly right. 

“Sleep first,” says Richie. “You still look like shit.” 

later

“I can’t believe you kissed my vomit mouth, that’s disgusting,” murmurs Eddie.

They’re lying together on the couch, not sleeping, Eddie’s head on Richie’s chest, their ankles tangled. Eddie’s drawing spirals over the collar of Richie’s shirt, drifting up to tickle at his neck. Richie’s hand is curled around Eddie’s waist, and his mouth is warm against his hair.

“Guess you must like me a lot,” says Richie, and Eddie can hear his smile. “To let me near you when you’re all ugly and vomity.”

“If you can’t handle me at my worst you don’t deserve me at my best,” hums Eddie. “Maybe I’ll get to see you at your best one of these days.” 

“Nah,” says Richie, “that’ll never happen.” Eddie is pretty sure he’s biting at his hair, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s going to shower for fifty years when he gets home anyway. Maybe he ought to get used to the close proximity of Richie’s spit. Like he hasn’t been preparing for that for his whole life.

He toys with one of the rips in Richie’s jeans. The thigh rip. The most scandalous of all of Richie’s terrible clothing. 

“You keep fucking with your jeans like that your nuts really will be on display,” he murmurs, poking at Richie’s thigh. 

“Why’d you think I did it? I was trying to seduce you.”

“Deliberately flashing your nuts at someone is maybe the worst possible way to seduce them, to be honest, I mean that’s just asking someone to kick you there, like… I definitely would have. You want kids, Richie? Because-” 

“Woah, slow down Eds, I think we’re moving too fast.” 

“Oh my  _ god _ -”

Behind them, the front door opens. Eddie shuts his mouth, shuts his eyes, curls in closer to Richie, like if he’s small enough and blind enough, they won’t see him either.

“Everyone owes Bev and Stan twenty bucks,” he hears Bill call, and Eddie is one second away from leaping up in righteous anger when Richie’s arms around him tighten. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, sweet and low. “I gave Stan a tip off, he owes us fifty percent.” 

“Date money,” whispers Eddie.

“I promise it’ll be way more romantic than a vomit kiss.” 

“Can’t wait,” says Eddie, and that’s actually kind of true.


	12. gymnophoria (reddie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gymnophoria - the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you

Partway through their last year of high school, Eddie starts to dream of Richie Tozier. It’s innocent, at first. Just his smile, his hands, vague impressions of the way he moves, juddering through muted colour and half-light, always silent, as he never is in life. Eddie wakes up from these dreams confused and a little bit unnerved but mostly softly rested. They’re better than his usual dreams, which are so mundane he feels like he’s lived a whole extra day in his sleep, sitting at his desk and writing ten pages of an essay and then and waking up panicked because it hadn’t made any sense. Dreaming of Richie is… comfortable. Uncomfortably and achingly comfortable.

Next, it’s dates. It’s Richie sitting across from Eddie, holding his hand, leaning in to whisper something in his ear that he never hears properly. It’s Richie, climbing in through Eddie’s window, just like he always does in real life, but with a different intention. He climbs in and presses his mouth to the flat space underneath Eddie’s ear, his throat, or he climbs in and pulls Eddie into his lap or he climbs in and says something in that dream language, so soft and full of love that Eddie wakes up sweating. He’s had a crush on Richie for as long as he can remember. A real one. A real life crush in real life that he pushes aside so they can stay friends. Because losing Richie as a friend would be like losing a limb.

But then, Eddie has a different sort of dream. It starts off black, infinite darkness, softened at the edges like the night sky without stars, and Eddie is there, standing in this dark and looking forward, into more. A boy, standing in space. Then comes a sound like dripping water, like waves lapping at a beach, and suddenly Richie is there too. He stands, swaying slightly, staring at Eddie with hooded eyes. His eyelashes are wet, and his hair, stuck to his cheeks and dripping down over his neck. He’s dressed in jeans, too long, water darkening the cuffs and creeping up his legs, and Eddie can’t see or feel the source of the water, but it’s there. It’s everywhere. His feet are bare. He’s wearing an ugly bowling shirt, mustard yellow and brick red and bone dry.

“Stay still,” he says, his voice echoing strangely, the first thing he’s said in any of Eddie’s dreams, that he’s been able to understand. Eddie stays still. 

First, Richie takes off his glasses. He takes them off and folds them up carefully and he doesn’t put them down, or drop them, or throw them away, they’re just there one second and then they’re gone and his hands are empty. His hands are wet and empty and he raises them to his collarbones, the top button of his shirt, and the backs of his fingers brush where his hands curl against the red fabric. He moves, achingly slow, undoing the first button, tucking the plastic into the loop of embroidery and pulling it free. His skin is pale. Water drips from his fingers onto his dry shirt, staining it darker than it is. His hands move down, to the second button. Eddie is thinking that if he could move, if he could move he might kiss the water from Richie’s lips, but he can’t. He is a boy, standing in space and frozen.

Richie undoes the second button and the two sides of his shirt hang open a little wider. There are three moles under his right collarbone, offset like a constellation, a zodiac sign. Eddie knows this already. There are five buttons on his shirt. His expression is still water, not seductive, not an aggressively bitten lip and a laugh like Richie if he really were stripping, but clear and open. Vulnerable maybe, wet eyelashes and clean skin.  _ This isn’t real _ , thinks Eddie. Richie reaches the third button, undoes that too. He shifts on his feet and the fabric of his shirt is wet enough from his hands that it sticks to his skin now. Eddie feels the water move around him. Fourth button, the soft curve of his stomach, his belly button, the dark hair that leads down. He undoes the final button and the shirt pulls away from his skin, hangs open. Richie shrugs it off and it falls over his shoulders, down his arms, and disappears like his glasses had.

Then it’s just Richie, shirtless, wet jeans and wet skin and no glasses. In real life, Richie dressed like this would mean he was at the Barrens or the quarry, playing at being wild. Sunbathing or ordering the rest of them around, on behalf of Ben, for one of his projects, until Ben got louder in his confidence. In real life, Richie wouldn’t just stand there and stare.

“Not even I can sexily take off a pair of jeans,” he says then, faintly, his smile crooked, suddenly so much like the real Richie that Eddie can feel his eyelashes flutter, back in life. He almost throws himself into wakefulness, can feel that it’s nearly the morning, cold windows and warm sheets, but then he must roll over or curl up a little smaller because he’s back in the dark again.

“I believe in you,” he says, his voice sounding a little like it’s coming from somewhere else, or from all around them.

Richie’s hands move to his pants and his thumb drags over the button first, and then he pops it free. Eddie’s vaguely aware that he should be panicking, that if any of this were real he’d have bolted as soon as Richie took his glasses off, but here, he can’t look away. Richie’s hands tug the denim down over his thighs and then he laughs, does a little shimmy, wriggles them all the way off, kicks them away into the dark. Eddie’s head is mist and fog, but pleasantly so, warm cheeks and warm hands and a warm heart. Richie is wearing boxers with the Ghostbusters logo on them, stark red and white and black. Eddie starts to laugh, and when he wakes up he’s breathless.

He has the same dream every night that week. Sometimes it ends with Richie taking off his jeans. Sometimes he doesn’t have boxers on underneath. Sometimes he stops with just his shirt, head cocked to one side, looking at Eddie like he’s waiting for some sign to continue. And Eddie doesn’t have a crush on Richie, he’s in love with him, has been for years now, and this makes it impossible to even look at him. 

At school, he avoids him as best as he can. He goes to the library at lunch because Richie is banned, unless he’s with a class. He goes to Bev’s place after school, and she knows exactly why, but she doesn’t say anything. She gives him lemon squash and she tells him about the newest and sweetest thing that Ben has done and she takes calls from Richie. 

“He’s frantic, you know,” she tells Eddie, when the phone call is done. “He thinks you hate him.”

“He’s infiltrated my dreams now,” says Eddie, miserably. “Like in Nightmare on Elm Street.” 

“He  _ kills  _ you?” Bev looks alarmed. 

“No, he takes his clothes off.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “That’s much worse.”

It takes a week of this for Richie to snap. Sunday night, and Eddie is at home, in his room, idly wondering what he’d have to tell his doctor to get prescribed sleeping pills. Something to stop him dreaming so he can talk to Richie again. And then there’s a tap at his window and Eddie shuts his eyes for a moment, just a moment, because he knows who it is. It could only be him. 

Richie tumbles in through the window when Eddie opens it, onto Eddies bed. His eyes are red-rimmed and a little bloodshot behind his glasses and there’s a crack at the edge of his lower lip, where he’s been chewing at it. Everything about Richie is a bad habit, thinks Eddie, scooting back until his back is against the wall.

“Are we fighting?” Richie asks, when he’s settled, when he’s sitting cross legged on the bed, head bowed, hair falling over his face. “It feels like we’re fighting.” 

“No,” says Eddie, barely a whisper. “I… I think  _ I’m  _ fighting, but not with you.” 

“Who the fuck are you fighting then? And why aren’t you talking to me?” 

“I…” His throat is aching. He swallows, swallows again, smooths his palms out over his thighs. “I’ve been having dreams about you.” 

Richie’s head shoots up. “Sexy dreams?” he asks, and he’s smiling sort of hopefully, like he’s sure that if he can make Eddie laugh, everything will go back to normal. Eddie kind of wants to beat his head against the wall. 

“In a way,” he says, carefully. “It… you take your clothes off.” 

“Wait, seriously?”

“It’s inappropriate, you should… you should stop.” 

“This is  _ my _ fault?” 

Eddie can’t help it, he glares at Richie. His head is a mess, static and white noise. “It’s obviously your fault,” he says. “You’re… you’re so…  _ you _ that I can’t stop dreaming about you stripping for me and I… I need you to stop it. I need you to be less… you.” 

“Less me,” echoes Richie. He looks bewildered and, honestly, Eddie can’t blame him.

“Yes,” he says, stubbornly. He wrings his hands. Richie looks kind of deranged, with his hair like it is and his glasses crooked and the dark circles under his eyes and the cut on his lip. He’s wearing a bowling shirt, baby pink and black. Eddie wants to kiss him. Wants to fall asleep and dream. “Yes,” he says again, to clear his head.

“Maybe if I do it for real, it’ll stop,” says Richie, after a moment.

“Fuck you,” spits Eddie. “Don’t-”

“Kiss me,” says Richie. 

Eddie blinks. He blinks again and then he punches himself in the thigh and then he pinches at the skin on his wrist, hard. Not dreaming. Not dreaming, real life. Richie is watching him, wary as a cat, eyes narrowed, like he’s expecting to get hit. Eddie pinches his arm again. 

“I’ll kill you if you’re fucking with me,” he says, voice pitched high and scared.

“Never, Eds,” says Richie, scratching barely above a whisper. 

So Eddie moves. He crawls clumsily across his bed to Richie, almost falls, grabs hold of the collar of his shirt to keep himself steady, the backs of his knuckles against his collarbones. Richie inhales sharply, breath shuddering. Eddie thinks he definitely shouldn’t kiss someone with a cut on their lip, but it might be okay if he’s dreaming. He leans forward, presses his lips to Richie’s like a sigh, and his eyes slip shut and his hands press up and over his shoulders and Richie touches his waist and then his hips and then his thighs. Eddie kisses him, opens his mouth with his tongue, kisses him, bites gently at his lower lip, kisses him. Not a dream, real life. A beginning.


	13. richie leaving derry (richie & bev ft. reddie)

On the night Richie leaves Derry, he visits Beverly Marsh. He knocks on her door in the dark, a duffel bag over his shoulder, and she answers in socks and sweats, and she looks at him for less than a second before grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hauling him inside.

“Don’t damage the goods,” he mutters, brushing his shirt down extravagantly when she lets him go.

“You want tea?” she asks, and she disappears into her kitchen without waiting for an answer. Richie dumps his duffel on the floor, by the door, and follows her.

Bev is the only one of them with a place of her own. She’d moved out of her aunt’s apartment as soon as she turned eighteen, into something smaller and harsher, three rooms and a fire escape with half the stairs rusted through and water stained wallpaper, but she’d been fiercely proud of it from the start. Her matchbox freedom. Richie is jealous. Richie is jealous and he has about thirteen loose socks in his bag, none of which match, and a clip-on necktie and ten years worth of snacks and a bus ticket to New York. His… what? His runaway freedom.

He’s still jealous.

He watches as she moves around her kitchen, pulling a pair of chipped mugs from her cupboard, setting her kettle on the stove. She’s humming rather aggressively under her breath, probably to stop herself from strangling him. Because she knows what he’s doing, there’s no way she doesn’t, she’s always been able to read his mind. He turns away from her, moves her fridge magnets around instead, a set of magnetic poetry that Ben had given her.  _ ugly languid juice _ , he spells out, and that seems just about right for drinking herbal tea on the night of an escape.

“You’re an idiot,” says Bev, peering over his shoulder to leave. “You know I’m gonna have to keep that forever now, right? Ben had a whole magnum opus going and you’ve fucked it all up.”

“Tell him that if he includes my bit, he has to give me royalties.”

“Tell him yourself.” Bev narrows her eyes, a dangerous sort of expression coming from her, but then she sighs and turns back to the stove.

They drink their tea in her tiny living room, sitting on her overstuffed, olive green couch, knees knocking together. Richie leans back to watch her, her face indistinct through the steam from her cup, but her eyes are sharp still. Her hair is muddied autumn leaves. She taps a fingernail against the curved handle of her mug.

“Look after Eds, okay?” he says, when the silence pulls too much.

“I don’t think I know an  _ Eds _ ,” says Bev, mildly.

“Look after Edward Kaspbrak, the love of my life, then,” says Richie. He tips his head back, sticks his tongue out at the ceiling. His mouth tastes like peppermint and like grass, because he’s pretty sure all herbal tea is about seventy percent lawn. Eddie tastes like cinnamon gum. Eddie tastes like cinnamon gum and baking soda because he still takes Advil at any hint of a headache.

“He’s gonna riot,” says Bev, “you know that, right?”

“Of course he is,” says Richie, fondly, glancing at Bev sidelong. “Maybe keep out of his way for a couple weeks.”

“Maybe tell him you’re fucking leaving,” snaps Bev, putting her mug down abruptly and getting to her feet. “This is stupid, Richie, even for you.”

“This is necessary,” says Richie, drawing the word out in syllables, like he’s reciting it at a spelling bee. “I’m dying, Bev.”

“You sound like Eddie.” Bev sounds scathing, vicious, and Richie shuts his eyes. “I’m not telling you not to leave, I’m telling you not to leave like this.”

“Would you tell Ben?”

“Fuck you, you know I would.”

“Yeah well, I’m not good with words.”

“No, you’re only good at bullshit.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Richie laughs, opens his eyes, and Bev is scowling down at him, hands on her hips, and he laughs again.

“Darling,” she says.

“ _ Darling _ ,” he says.

“You-” She bites her lip. “You need lip balm,” she says, and she disappears abruptly, spinning on her heel and darting across the room to the hallway.

She comes back with lip balm and a comb and wet wipes and a blister pack of ibuprofen that kind of makes Richie want to sprint over to Eddie’s place. Stand outside his window and shout until he wakes up and starts shouting back. Fuck. Fuck Derry. It’s a goddamn nightmare of a place. He presses the heel of his palm against the knuckles of the opposite hand, until he can feel his bones moving under his skin.

“You have food? Cash?” Bev asks, dumping her supplies into Richie’s lap.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I’m not totally fucking hopeless.”

“Hmm,” says Bev, looking unconvinced.

“Bill knows,” says Richie, then. “He’s knows someone I can stay with.”

“Good.” She slumps down on the couch with him again, rests her head on his shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

They go to the bus station in town. It’s been raining off and on for the last week, and the pavement is dark and wet and everything smells like hot earth. Richie counts his steps and thinks of Eddie. Richie checks his watch, counts the minutes until he’ll be gone, and thinks of Eddie. Bev scuffs her sneakers across the sidewalk, jingles her keys in her pocket.

He waits until the last minute to board the bus, plays push and pull with Bev, nudging at her shoulder until she bumps at him with her hip.

“Call me tomorrow,” she say, when the bus driver calls for tickets. “Call Eddie tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “Yeah, maybe.”

“If you’d told him, he would’ve come with you,” she says, quietly.

“But what if he didn’t?” Richie runs a hand through his hair, gets caught, pulls hard. “What if he said no?”

Bev doesn’t say anything, just leans forward and puts her hands on Richie’s shoulders, so she can kiss him on the cheek. Her nose is cold against the side of his face. Her hair tickles at his eyelashes. When she pulls back, he keeps one of her hands and kisses the back of it, a dramatic smooch that makes her laugh and pull away, twisting around and cradling her kissed hand to her chest.

“I’ll never wash it,” she announces, eyes shut.

“See you later, Molly Ringwald.”

“Yeah.” She opens her eyes, clear as summer rain. “Later, Trashmouth.”

Richie gets on the bus and he doesn’t look back. He sits down the back, slumped against the cool window, his bag of supplies on the seat next to him. He makes sure he’s rummaging through it, looking for his discman, when the bus pulls away. It’s mostly so he has a reason not to look at her, standing on the sidewalk, and only when they’re properly moving does he put his headphones on, shut his eyes, and press play.


	14. i've just realised we're on a date (reddie)

“Hey, so… I think I’ve realised something,” says Eddie, because he has, because it hit him like a bolt to the chest and now he’s having trouble breathing. “Did you know we’re on a date?”

They’re on Richie’s bed, bathed in the sickly green glow of the ugliest lava lamp in the world, and it’s not quite three in the morning. Richie’s hanging upside down over the foot of the bed, hair everywhere, glasses on the floor where they’d fallen off his face. Eddie’s sitting against the wall, his legs bridging Richie’s hips, and he’s thinking that he’s fucked it all up and he hadn’t even realised it was happening. Did Richie ever even  _ call  _ it a date? He’s pretty sure he just punched him in the shoulder and suggested they see Jurassic Park for like… the tenth time. But he had cut out the movie times from the newspaper and brought them with him, which should have been a clue. Richie fucking Tozier who doesn’t even have a watch, just grabs Eddie’s hand when he wants to know the time.

Richie struggles back up onto the bed and his hair stays mostly airborne, electrocuted, and he’s squinting hard, because he’s left his glasses on the floor, and he looks kind of like when you gut a cassette tape and all the insides come out in tangled loops. A really… a really fucking beautiful broken cassette tape. What the fuck. Eddie sucks his lower lip into his mouth, bites down hard. Maybe it’s not a date at all, maybe Richie really had just wanted to plan their evening for once. Bad pizza and a good movie.

“Eddie,” says Richie, blearily, “sweetheart, what in the fuck are you talking about?”

“Right,” says Eddie. “Right, no, I mean that was a joke, it’s-”

“No, Eds, just-.” He dives halfway off the bed again, picks up his glasses, comes back even more disheveled. “It’s obviously a fucking date,” he says, jamming his glasses onto his face, patting feverishly at his hair, shuffling forward onto his knees and then moving closer. The mattress shifts under his weight. “I gave you a flower.”

“No, you… you desecrated a public park and gave me a-a quarter of a hydrangea with like… three petals total, and-.”

“It was a romantic gesture, asshole,” he scoffs. He’s smiling though, and he settles down next to Eddie, against the wall, flush against his side.

“I’m pretty sure it was a crime,” mutters Eddie. Richie is warm and he makes the summer night warmer still. Eddie scowls at his hands, resting in his lap. Richie kicks at Eddie’s foot gently, elbows him in the side.

“Eddie,” he says, voice pitched low and crooning. “Hey Eddie, you wanna go on a date?”

“It’s the middle of the night.” Eddie can feel Richie’s eyes on him, the heat of his breath. “I should go home.”

“I’ll make you a hot chocolate,” coos Richie, “with some of those tiny marshmallows.”

“Marshmallows give you cancer,” says Eddie, automatically. “I’m leaving.” But he doesn’t move. He knows Richie is grinning, even though he can’t bring himself to look at him. He can see it anyway, in his mind’s eye, crookedly charming and open and sweet. Fuck. How the fuck has he spent like eight hours on a date without even realising it. Why is it so easy to spend eight entire hours with him at all? His cheeks hurt. He wishes he’d known, he would have… he would’ve done something.

“Hey, quit pouting, here let me… let me just-.” Richie sighs, takes Eddie by the shoulders, and crawls into his lap. He’s warm, bare-limbed and full of sun even though it’s been dark for hours. Eddie shuts his eyes, smiling now. He feels Richie’s hands move, over his shoulders to his throat, his thumb brushing against the hollow, stopping there against his pulse. It’s a clumsy position, because Richie’s legs are too long and Eddie is much smaller than him, but it’s nice still, close up and tangled. They’re on a date. Their first date. Not the first time they’ve been close like this but… their first actual real date.

“I didn’t know,” says Eddie quietly, opening his eyes, looking at Richie finally. “You gotta use actual words when you speak, Richie.” He reaches up, runs a hand through Richie’s hair, tugs gently when he gets caught on knots.

Richie’s eyes flutter closed and his smile turns dreamy. “Fuck that,” he hums, leaning into Eddie’s hand, pressing up into the blunt bite of his fingernails. “I’m gonna be oblique and confusing ‘til we die.”

“Oblique? That an SAT word, Rich?”

“Th’ fuck should I know?”

“Where’s my hot chocolate?”

“I’ll make you one if you give me my first kiss.”

“We’ve kissed before, idiot,” says Eddie, but he pulls again on Richie’s hair and Richie grins, leans forward so their foreheads are touching, the ridge of his glasses pressing into Eddie’s eyebrows, because there’s probably always going to be something annoying with them. Richie’s glasses or his clumsy limbs or Eddie’s tendency to push too hard, even if Richie likes it. A fucking neon green lava lamp.

“Quick, before I fall asleep,” hums Richie.

“You fucking would,” murmurs Eddie. “Be quiet.”

He tilts his head, presses his lips to Richie’s, one hand in his hair and one gentle at his elbow. Richie makes a pleased sound, throws his arms around Eddie’s neck immediately, even though he’ll almost definitely scrape his knuckles against the wall. His mouth is soft, warm, just like the rest of him, and it opens easily, greedy and pliant and eager, just like the rest of him. Eddie loves how much Richie loves to kiss. Loves how he doesn’t care about showing it, about throwing himself into every kiss with everything. It’s overwhelming and lovely and they’re on a  _ date _ , and even though Eddie’s pretty sure there are supposed to be rules about that sort of thing, about kissing on first dates, sleeping in the same bed on first dates, Eddie really doesn’t give a shit. He’s definitely going to stay. They’re going to drink hot chocolate and fall asleep together. 

He pushes his hands up and under Richie’s shirt and Richie wriggles in his lap and grins against his mouth and they’re on a date. Their first date. Jurassic Park and bad pizza and dirty flowers and hot chocolate and Eddie hadn’t even  _ known _ . Oh well. He’ll make sure he’s fully present for all the rest. 


	15. candy (bev/eleven ft. reddie and stanlon)

Jane arrives suddenly, midway through the school term, with a man who everyone knows is a cop, even though he doesn’t wear a badge or a uniform. She starts school and she doesn’t really talk to anyone. She has curly hair and she chews at the edge of her lip when she’s concentrating. Bev notices these things, just like she notices the way people always react to the new kid in Derry, curious and defensive, like they might ruffle feathers or kick cracks into the pavement. Well. To be fair, when Ben was the new kid, almost four years ago now, they’d torn up the old Neibolt house. Something like that anyway. And Derry had changed after that. Bev doesn’t think Jane will do anything quite so dramatic.   
  
But then she finds her one day in autumn, at the quarry, skipping stones without touching them.   
  
“So you’re magic then?” she asks, and Jane startles, scowls thunderously.   
  
“Go away,” she says.   
  
“It’s cool,” says Bev, trying to sound less eager, less like she’s been waiting for something like this to happen since she was thirteen. Like proof that there was more to that summer than they remember. “I won’t tell anyone.”   
  
They sit there for the rest of the afternoon and Jane tells her that she’s always been called Eleven by her friends, so Bev calls her Eleven. She tells her she was hurt a lot as a kid, that she can do stuff normal people can’t, though she’s not the only one. Bev tells her that she was hurt a lot as a kid too, but she didn’t get psychic powers out of it, and Eleven laughs and shrugs, holds out her hands like she might give her something to make up for it, but all she has against her palms are stones for skipping. Bev takes one, casts it out across the water, and it bounces eight times before sinking. It’s a sign, she thinks. A new member for their club.   
  
The others take to Eleven quickly, because of course they do, and it’s a little bit weird at first, especially the stuff where Eleven can move things with her mind, but it turns mundane pretty quickly. When Richie discovers she can do shit with electronics, he gets her to help him take over the school radio station. She loves it, of course, and they call themselves pirates and make the speakers blast bubblegum pop and grunge during last period on Fridays, so loud they’re let out early. Or she and Ben make castles out of popsicle sticks, stacked far higher than gravity should allow, and Ben pretends he’s beyond physics, beyond the laws of nature, he’ll build a city in the sky one day. Bev’s pretty sure that’d be true even if they weren’t friends with a magical girl.   
  
She and Eleven hang out together alone too. El has a voracious appetite for music and films, especially the things she thinks she’s missed out on. Something to do with catching up, with feeling like she’s always a step behind, in school too, and in the way she interacts with people. Bev does what she can, is slow and thorough in her musical education, though she knows that Richie will pick up any slack and Ben will fill in boy group gaps. They use Bev’s old tape deck, yellow and blue plastic, rounded edges, like a jukebox made small. They lie on the floor of Bev’s bedroom and Eleven declares her favourites to the air and they become Bev’s favourites too, just because El likes them. She learns the lyrics quickly, starts off just mouthing along to the music but soon gets theatrical, fist clutched to her chest, eyebrows dramatic.   
  
“Why don’t you dance with me?” she pleads along with Cindy Wilson, voice pitching wildly. “I’m not no Limburger.”   
  
Bev is lying on the floor, but she sighs then, and gets up, and they make up dances to everything in the song. The Shookaloo, the Campbell walk, the Aqua Velva.   
  
“They aren’t real dances, you know,” she tells Eleven, spinning her in a circle. Her hand is small, dry, warm.   
  
“If we’re dancing, they’re real,” says Eleven, spinning again for good measure, almost tripping over her feet. “What’s a Limburger?”   
  
“Smelly cheese, I think,” says Bev, and El laughs, delighted.   
  
Bev learns, too, that on top of being attached to bubblegum pop and bubblegum movies, Eleven has a sweet tooth for actual sweets. They’re all walking home after school one day and Mike has a white paper bag in one hand and it’s that specific sort of thin paper, translucent and easy to tear, almost as nostalgic as the candy inside, and Eleven is watching his hands, twisting at the top. He and Richie and Stan had been arguing about their favourite candy from childhood and Richie had bought ring pops for each of his fingers even though they couldn’t fit past his first knuckle and Stan had bought Nerds and stained his tongue purple and Mike had bought a handful of Pixy Stix, striped in grape and cherry.   
  
“I know another Mike who liked those,” hums Eleven, scuffing her boots along the sidewalk. “He bought me a bunch once, like flowers, all the colours.”   
  
“Romantic,” says Mike, grinning, offering her one like it’s a rose, and she laughs and takes it and pours the sherbet onto her tongue.   
  
She gets something from all of them, holds the ring pop up to the sun like a jewel while Eddie pouts because really he should be the one getting a ring from Richie. Bev finds herself wishing she’d bought something too, just to have something to give her. She watches her shadow, the solid dark of her baggy jeans, the halo of her hair, short and wild and bordered by flame.   
  
“You’re all wrong anyway,” says Ben, startling her a little. “Airheads were the best.”   
  
“Airheads are garbage candy,” says Richie, around the ring in his mouth.   
  
“You’re garbage candy,” mutters Eddie, nonsensically.   
  
“I love it all,” says Eleven, happy to be talking nonsense.   
  
After that, she buys her own. It’s Red Vines in history class, curled around her index finger, and it’s Hubba Bubba after school, stretchy grape bubbles that she takes incredibly seriously, and it’s Chupa Chups almost always, cola flavoured or green apple or strawberries and cream. Bev thinks it’s charming. Bev wants to know if she tastes like candy too, if the sweet and sour of it stays on her tongue. Bev wants to know as much as she can about Eleven.   
  
It’s hard to find out much, though. Eleven’s dad, the cop who never says he’s a cop, is cagey about any questions Bev asks. All he’ll say is that they’re from Indiana, that they had to leave quickly, that El has people there who she misses so don’t bring it up, kid. He calls her Jane. She calls him Hopper or nothing at all. They communicate in silence, and Bev think they have the sort of closeness that can only come from trauma. It’s something she recognises anyway, because of the friends she has and what she’s done with them, even if none of them really understand it. They were there for her when no one else was.   
  
For her part, Eleven is open about the people she’s left behind. She talks about her friends a lot. Mike, her first love, a boy all eyelashes and loyalty. Will, heart on sleeve, something special about him that everyone saw, though it didn’t necessarily make them treat him kindly. She calls him her brother sometimes. She shows off the drawings he gave her. Lucas and Dustin and Max, rough and tumble, who taught her how to tell jokes, how to talk shit, how to make friends, ride a skateboard, beat boys at arcade games. Nancy who did her makeup for the first dance she ever went to, one of the best days of her life. Bev loves them all, because Eleven loves them. Bev wants to give her more best days.   
  
They throw her a party for her birthday. She’s the first of them to turn eighteen and she lords it over them, just so much more grown up, a whole month older than Richie but an infinite expanse of maturity between them. They have the party at Mike’s farm, and it’s not much really, just them together in his barn as the sun goes down. Dry straw and fairy lights and golden liquor that Richie provides, with a bitter roll of his eyes. Bev makes her a dress, a huge soft thing in grey flannel, like something Courtney Love might wear except less flimsy. Maybe more like something Kurt Cobain might wear. She pulls it on immediately, over her jeans and t-shirt, and Bev spins her again, like she had in her room, learning music.    
  
The others get her candy, in white paper bags, and she sits down in the hay and arranges it all in her lap and smiles and smiles and smiles.    
  
Bill gives her something else. A drawing he’s done of all of them in watercolours, El in the middle, the sun and water of the quarry. She stares at it for a long time and then lurches to her feet to hug him, spilling all her candy to the floor. When she pulls back, she rests her hands on his chest, tucks her fingers under the lapels of his jacket.   
  
“I wish you could meet Will,” she tells him. “I’ll make it happen one day. I’ll show you our dark place.”    
  
Mike puts the drawing in the house, somewhere it won’t get rumpled by the wind or by clumsy hands or by El herself, drunk and excitable. Well. It wouldn’t matter much if it got creased, it might just add more of their lives to it, but Mike puts it away all the same.   
  
They drink and they talk and Eleven is distracted, nervous maybe, and she plucks at the skirt of her dress and fiddles with the white paper bags.   
  
“You look pretty,” murmurs Bev, leaning into her briefly, made bold by the alcohol and by the night and by her friends.   
  
“You look beautiful,” says Eleven, gravely, leaning back.   
  
Bev is brave enough too, to know that they have something similar to what Richie and Eddie had, before they got over their various bullshit and got together. Something similar to what Stan and Mike have now, careful around each other like they’re afraid, like they’re thrilled, like they’re always a moment from tearing each other’s clothes off. Bev would trust Eleven with her life.    
  
El picks a paint shop lollipop, blue raspberry, and she hums as she pulls the top off and dips the candy brush in the sherbet.   
  
“How many of those are in there? You’re gonna get diabetes,” says Eddie, glancing at her, eyes wide.   
  
“Nope,” says Eleven, carefully folding the paper bag closed, shoving the lollipop in her mouth, grinning happily around the stick.   
  
“My great uncle has diabetes but he won’t stop eating junk so they keep having to like… amputate his toes,” continues Eddie, mouth twisting. Next to him, Richie has his face tilted up to the lights, all stars, eyes shut, an expression of pure bliss painted across his features, the same expression he gets every time Eddie starts talking about medical bullshit. Because he’s even more stupid in love than Bev is.   
  
“Fucking beautiful,” he says.   
  
“You’re lying,” says Eleven. “How could sugar do that?”   
  
“Don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” hums Bev, feeling a little defensive. She touches the inside of Eleven’s elbow, brown from the sun and holding all of its warmth. El smiles at her, and her lips are blue at the centre, where the colour has bled from her tongue to her mouth.   
  
“Sweetheart?” she asks, her smile getting wicked at the corners, and Bev bites her tongue the keep from cooing.   
  
“Diabetes makes your veins thinner,” says Eddie, swinging a bottle from his fingers. “It like… pinches them shut, so your extremities die, or some shit.”   
  
“I love you, Eds,” says Richie, dreamily.   
  
“Shut up,” says Eddie, but his cheeks are pink under his tan.   
  
Eleven dips her lollipop in the little bag of sherbet again, puts it back in her mouth. “I can kind of fly,” she points out, after a long silence, her pronunciation clumsy around the candy. “Don’t need feet, don’t need legs.”   
  
Mike starts to laugh and Eddie looks alarmed and Bev throws her arm around El’s shoulders, pulls her closer.   
  
“I can see it now,” says Richie, dramatically, throwing his hands wide. “This tiny girl in enormous overalls, floating along the street, blood flowing from her nose like a faucet.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Eddie groans, pressing his face into Richie’s shoulder. “What the fuck.”   
  
Eleven grins, all teeth. “And bags of candy,” she says   
  
“One thousand candy necklaces around your neck,” says Bev.   
  
“Buy them for me?”   
  
“Sure, I’ll only ever buy you jewellery you can eat.”   
  
“Perfect,” says Eleven, with great satisfaction.   
  
“Romantic,” says Stan, eyes on Mike.    
  
Later, they go back to the house to sleep. They set up the living room, couches and foam mattresses and a mess of blankets. There are spare bedrooms enough for all of them, if they split into pairs, but they stay together anyway. Stan lies down first, lets the rest of them organise themselves around him. He keeps a blanket over his face, like he doesn’t want them to see him smiling as Mike ends up next to him, but Bev’s pretty sure Stan’s smile could be seen from space. Ben brings them all water, to help with the hangovers they’ll wake up too, and he tries to give his extra pillow to Bill, who rolls his eyes and pushes it back. Eleven brushes her teeth for almost ten minutes. Eddie makes noises about having his own mattress, because Richie’s too giant and annoying to sleep with, but curls up with him all the same. Bev watches them, not tired yet, and when they’re all settled, she slips back outside.    
  
It’s a warm night, early summer, and the stars are like sea foam, white lace, spilled across the sky. Mike’s farm always seems like it has more stars than it should. They’ll be finished with school soon. Bev leans against the railing of the deck, the wood damp with night air. They’ll be finished with school soon and she still doesn’t know what she’s going to do. Maybe she’ll stay here, count the stars, prove that there really are more than there ought to be.   
  
She isn’t surprised when El joins her. She’s just wearing the dress now, has taken off her jeans and t-shirt from underneath. She looks just as soft and warm as Bev had known she would.   
  
“Richie’s snoring already,” she says, nudging at Bev’s shoulder. “Wanna make a bet on who’ll kill him?”   
  
“Stan,” says Bev, smiling. “There’s no way it won’t be Stan.”   
  
“Maybe Eddie,” hums El. “Crime of passion.”    
  
“I think Ben’s got at least one murder in him.”    
  
“No.” Eleven shakes her head. “No way.”    
  
Bev grins, leans further out over the railing, tilting her face to the sky.    
  
“Will you go back to Indiana when school’s finished?” she asks, a question that’s been cutting at her teeth for a month now.    
  
“I don’t know,” sighs Eleven. “Hop misses Joyce.”   
  
“You miss people too,” points out Bev, as gently as she can.   
  
“Yeah, but Hopper, he’s…” She shrugs. Her hands shift on the railing, like she might find the answer against the grain of the wood. Bev takes a breath, takes Eleven’s hand…    
  
“We’ve known each other almost a year now,” she says, braiding their fingers together. “I still think you’re magic.”    
  
“And you’re beautiful,” says Eleven, no lie in her voice, not even the smallest hint of doubt.    
  
Bev’s heart is beating so fast she can hardly think. El is grey flannel, spearmint toothpaste, blue raspberry, long eyelashes, sharp teeth. El is magic, not magic, stocking feet and bad dancing. A girl Beverly loves with her whole heart.    
  
They’re almost at the end of school. Neither of them know what they’re doing. Bev still wants to kiss her. So she does. She leans forward, presses her lips to El’s smile. A handful of grey flannel, a hand against El’s neck, her collarbones. Her open mouth, the sigh of her breath, her long eyelashes shivering and then shutting, the stars above them. El kisses her back. It’s not something hot with passion, not fumbling or wild or desperate, but calm as still water, calm as wet grass against bare ankles. Eleven’s hands at Bev’s waist, her warm mouth, the taste of toothpaste and rum and a paint brush lollipop.    
  
When Eleven pulls away, it’s just to rest her forehead against Bev’s. She opens her eyes. Bev licks her lips. They hold onto one another, clothes and skin.    
  
“I’ll come with you,” says Bev. “Anywhere you go.”    
  
“Derry’s not ours,” whispers Eleven.    
  
“Nothing’s ours,” says Bev. She kisses the corner of El’s mouth.    
  
“You’re mine,” says Eleven.    
  
“Yeah.”    
  
“Wanna dance?”    
  
“The Aqua Velva?”   
  
So they dance, feet bare against the cool wood of the deck. Not a dance with steps, just held hands and spinning, just held close and swaying. They’ll sleep eventually, find space amongst their friends to curl up together, just like they always will, even if there are miles between them. Beverly still doesn’t know what they’ll do. Maybe they’ll go to Indiana with Hopper. Maybe they’ll go somewhere else alone. It doesn’t matter. Bev will buy Eleven candy necklaces. Eleven will recite all the soap opera love confessions she’s memorised. They’ll listen to music and they’ll scream at the top of their lungs and they’ll dance.


	16. freckles (reddie)

Eddie is pretty sure Richie has a death wish. It’s something to do with summer, maybe the heat fries his insides or maybe the ice cubes in his drinks, which he insists on fucking chewing instead of letting melt, give him permanent brain freeze, because he’s constantly roaming around without a shirt, getting sunburned, dooming himself to a short life of skin cancer and an early grave. It’s not like he even has much to show off anyway. His tan is patchy, because occasionally he actually remembers sunscreen and kind of… slaps it on without worrying about consistency and coverage, and his freckles are blotchy, pale brown, scattered across his shoulders and back like stars, and it’s not… it’s  _ annoying _ , mostly, because it’s not like the rest of them feel the need to strip every time they step into the sun. Just Richie. Because he wants to die.

“There are faster ways to kill yourself,” says Eddie, on one of these days. They’re at the quarry, on the cliff, looking out across the water. They’ve been swimming all water but they’re drying off now and, to be fair, none of them have shirts on this time, but Richie’s skin is peeling pretty bad and that’s. Annoying. It’s annoying to look at. 

“What are you talking about, Eds?” Richie bumps at Eddie’s shoulder with his, tilts his head back into the sun. His glasses flash like lightning. Eddie feels strangely hysterical.

“You’re skin is peeling off,” he mutters. “You’re fucked, Trashmouth, those freckles are definitely cancerous.” 

“No they’re not,” hums Richie, airily. “They’re beauty marks.” 

“That one,” says Eddie, poking a freckle at Richie’s shoulder, “is definitely cancer.”

Richie makes a dubious noise in the back of his throat, presses the pad of his finger to his skin, next to Eddie’s.“It’s charming,” he says. “I’m like Anne of Green Gables.” 

“ _ Excuse me _ ?” ask Bev, leaning forward forward over her knees, so she can see them better, eyebrows raised almost to her hair. “All red headed fictional characters are legally my property.”

“That’s true,” says Ben, quietly. “That’s definitely the law.” 

“Well who am I then?” Richie demands. Eddie’s hand is still on his shoulder and he pulls away, but Richie follows, leaning heavily into his side. It’s too hot for this. It’s too hot and they’re wearing far too little clothing. Their bare arms are touching, shoulder to elbow. Richie’s shoulders are peeling, and the bridge of his nose, just under his glasses. They aren’t supposed to be touching. It’s like an unwritten rule for teenage boys without shirts on. No touching. It doesn’t matter that Mike has been all over Stan all morning. That’s different. Eddie doesn’t move though. It’s too hot.

“Milhouse,” says Bev, decisively. “You’re Milhouse from The Simpsons, obviously.”

This sends the whole group into chaos, and Eddie finds himself pulled to his feet by a yelling Richie, and hauled off down the path, to the bottom of the cliff, the edge of the water. He doesn’t really question it. The long grass whips at his shins. Richie’s hand is warm and he’s scowling furiously and Eddie isn’t really trying that hard not to laugh and behind them the others are shrieking now, and wolf-whistling, like Richie’s dragged Eddie off on a romantic river cruise and not down to where the earth is cracked and muddied dark and there is god knows what in the water. Frogs probably. A single turtle and one million frogs and one billion dragonflies that like to dive bomb you when you least expect it. Romantic.

“Why am I here?” Eddie asks, pulling himself out of Richie’s grip when they reach the bottom. “Bev’s right, I’m not on your side. You know we’re gonna have to climb back up there, eventually.”

“You’re never on my side,” says Richie, mournfully. “Always telling me to brush my hair or tie my shoelaces or wear sunscreen.”

“Because you’ll die,” mutters Eddie. “Because I don’t want you to die.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up, no it’s not.”

“You wanna peel off my sunburn?”

“You want an infection?” Eddie slaps Richie’s arm gently. “I have aloe in my backpack.”

“You wanna tend to my wounds, then?”

“Sit the fuck down, Richard.”

“Anything for you, Edward.”

So Richie sits down, where the ground is driest, bare feet just barely in the water, and Eddie sits down behind him, crosses his legs, shuffles closer. His shins bump against Richie’s back. Richie wriggles. Eddie resists the urge to kick him. He can’t hear their friends anymore, all the way up in the sky. Eddie shrugs off his backpack, rummages around in it for a few moments, pulls out his bottle of aloe vera lotion. His mum gave it to him and honestly, it’s annoying, that some of the things she tells him to do are actually sensible. Fake asthma and real sunburn aren’t really the same thing.

“It’ll be cold,” he warns Richie. “But if you squirm I’ll kick you.”

“Aye aye,” says Richie, with a half-hearted salute.

Eddie squirts some of the lotion into his palm. It’s transparent green and full of air bubbles. Richie’s sunburn isn’t actually that bad, this time, just a blush across his shoulders, his back, his nose. Just a delicate peeling of skin that reminds Eddie of being younger, of riding around Derry on their bikes, of the soles of their feet burned by asphalt, skinned knees, a broken arm and scribbled signatures covering the white-grey plaster of a cast. Stan still has scars at the high points of his cheek and his jawline, small and white, like tally marks. Bev doesn’t let her hair grow longer than her ears. Bill… Bill doesn’t stutter anymore, but he’s still hurting somewhere. Eddie shivers, and Richie must feel it, because he leans back briefly, bringing them closer still.

“Distracted by my broad shoulders and rippling muscles?” He asks, turning clumsily to wink at Eddie. His voice is slow and lazy and full of sun.

“You want the aloe or not?”

“Yes sir.” 

“Quiet, then.” 

They aren’t supposed to be touching, thinks Eddie, but it seems… stupid suddenly. Inconsequential. Or maybe the most important thing in the world. Eddie’s legs against Richie’s back, his sides. Richie’s hair is lighter than it usually is, the sun again, drawing red light out of the black. His freckles are kind of cute, even if they are a death sentence. Like constellations of stars at night. Eddie bites his tongue, holds his breath, smears the lotion across Richie’s shoulders in one swipe. Richie squirms and Eddie laughs and then they settle. Eddie drags his palm up and over one of Richie’s shoulders, smoothing the lotion into the reddest parts of his skin, where it’s peeling the worst, transparent, like rice-paper. Maybe his shoulders are quite nice, thinks Eddie. Maybe his tan is quite nice too, even though it’s definitely also patchy and uneven. Maybe Eddie’s the one with a death wish. 

“Feels nice,” hums Richie, voice slower still, lower still, burned sunshine. 

“It’s never happening again,” says Eddie, weakly. “Because you’re gonna start wearing proper amounts of sunscreen.”

“Can you do it for me? Like this?” 

“No,” says Eddie. “Say please.” 

“Please? Eds?” 

“No,” says Eddie again, laughing. 

“I hate you.” He sounds like he’s pouting, and Eddie can practically see it, the downturned corners of his mouth, pushed forward bottom lip, playing at being a kid. Disgusting. He rubs in the last of the lotion, careful to cover all the redness of Richie’s skin. 

“Turn around, I’ll put some on your nose,” he orders, and Richie does as he’s told, turns awkwardly in place so he’s facing Eddie. His cheeks are pinker, more than sunburn. Their knees are touching. They should definitely always be touching. Forever. Eddie reaches forward, swipes the pad of his thumb across the bridge of Richie’s nose, his cheeks, and Richie laughs at that, eyes like crescents, light caught in his lashes. “Done,” says Eddie, quietly. “Cured.”

“You’re always saving my life,” murmurs Richie. “Do you… do you want to kiss me as much as I wanna kiss you, Eds?” 

“I-” Eddie stops. Richie looks calm, head tilted to one side, and the air is thick with the fresh, clean smell of aloe, and the sound of cicadas, and bright white sun. “Yes,” he says, quickly. “All the time.” 

“Okay,” says Richie. “Okay, that’s… that’s good.” 

“They’re gonna be unbearable about it, though,” says Eddie, glancing up to the cliff. 

“If we make out, I’ll tell them you kicked me and pushed me in the lake.” 

“Deal.”

So they kiss, under the sun, by the water. Richie’s hands are shaking, Eddie can feel it when he touches his face. Eddie’s pretty sure he is too, but he doesn’t really care. Everything smells of aloe and mud. Richie tastes like fresh lake water and his lips are chapped and his shoulders are warm. Maybe Eddie really will push him in the lake, jump in after him, just so they can be wet together, kiss in the water too. It won’t kill them. 


	17. petrichor (reddie)

In Derry, when it rains, it pours. It’s been storming for three days now, since Thursday, the first rain of spring, and Eddie’s very conscious of the fact that he only has one day of weekend left. He’s pretty sure the whole town is sinking. He’s staring out the window of his bedroom, down onto the road, and he’s pretty sure he can see it happening, the earth softening and the road being swallowed up by mud. It might be an improvement. He presses his nose to the glass, narrows his eyes. He’s pretty sure if Derry sinks, he’ll sink with it, and he’d probably end up in the sewers, which is maybe the last place on earth he wants to be. They haven’t been back. Not for years. He hopes it stays that way.

He pulls away from the window, drags a finger down the glass next to the smudges left behind by his face. It’s grey outside, the rain shrouds everything in shadow, leeches the colour out of the grass and his neighbour’s flowers. His mother is in Portland, seeing her doctor. A doctor who is apparently willing to take an appointment over the weekend. Well.  _ She’s  _ willing to drive two hours for an appointment. But it is annoying. Usually when she’s out, he takes the opportunity to be out too. He’s almost seventeen, but it can still be hard for him to get out of the house for anything longer than an afternoon. In the rain, he feels like an island, deserted.

“The itsy bitsy spider,” he hums, tapping at the glass, and outside something moves. He flinches back before realising it’s a person, just a person. Nothing scary. Just a smudgy shadow stomping determinedly across Eddie’s lawn, the green of their clothing muddied into khaki by the rain. An apparition, conjured up in loneliness. Or maybe-

“For fuck’s sake,” mutters Eddie, recognising him suddenly. It’s the green raincoat. It’s the green raincoat and the stupidity that makes him sure it’s Richie, giving himself pneumonia. Eddie fumbles with the window latch and pushes open his window. “Don’t even think about climbing the tree, you maniac,” he yells down at him. “Go to the front door.”

Richie must hear him, over the roar of the weather, because he waves a hand and disappears out of sight. Eddie gets off his bed and heads downstairs, dragging his feet a little, just to make Richie wait. The sound of the doorbell makes him hurry though, because Richie never fucking stops, just presses it over and over again until Eddie answers. They’re made of the same stuff, shrill and obnoxious and unending.

Eddie opens the door, just a little. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he hisses, blocking the landing with his body. Richie looks like a drowned rat. His raincoat is an old girl scout’s parka that has lost its hood but retained several stitched on patches. Apparently Cadette Richie has mastered archery, outdoor survival, and plant culture. His hair is stuck to his cheeks and there is water dripping down his neck, under his clothes. His lips are pale, but the tip of his nose is red. His glasses are so fogged up it’s a wonder he made it the whole four blocks between their houses in one piece.

“Your mum’s away, right?” he says, like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, but it’s like the end of days out there.”

“You think I wouldn’t battle a biblical flood to see you, Eds? Lemme in.”

“Whatever.” Eddie steps back and Richie comes in, dripping all over the floor. “Shoes and coat off.”

“No shit.”

With Richie dripping less, they head back upstairs. Eddie stops briefly at the linen closet, pulls out a couple of towels and reaches up to drop one on Richie’s head. Richie scrubs at his wet hair blindly and Eddie tucks his hand under his arm, so he can guide him down the hallway. His long-sleeved t-shirt is wet at the cuffs at the collar, but dry at the elbows. His jeans are wet to the shins. He’s definitely going to get pneumonia and die. Probably right on Eddie’s bed, just to be annoying. Still. Eddie’s glad to see him.

In Eddie’s bedroom, they sit on the floor. Richie’s mostly dry now, his hair fluffy and fly away, the towel draped around his neck, but Eddie’s not taking any chances. Damp sheets lead to black mold which leads to chronic respiratory problems and he’s not about to swap fake asthma for the real thing. Richie doesn’t seem to mind. He lies on the floor, head cushioned on the folded up towel, and balances Eddie’s small plastic tape deck on his chest. He takes off his glasses, shuts his eyes, browses radio stations, tapping at the dial with his index finger. There are short bursts of sound, songs Eddie doesn’t have time to recognise, fuzz and static, and then he settles on something quiet, dreamy, that matches the drumming sound of rain on the roof kind of perfectly.

Eddie wants to lie down next to him, but he thinks that might be… too close to acknowledging something he isn’t quite ready for. Richie is… overwhelming. He’d been overwhelming as a thirteen year old too, wild hair and pretty eyelashes, but he’s worse now. He’d had a more aggressive growth spurt than any of them, shooting up like a weed, but he still hasn’t really fit into his new limbs properly. He always has grazed knees that Eddie wants to swab with iodine. He always has bitten fingernails, torn cuticles, that Eddie wants to wrap up. A mummy boy, falling to pieces, just like Eddie’s a mummy’s boy. Fucking… fuck. Eddie swallows the laugh that threatens to spill passed his lips, focusses back on the damp collar of Richie’s t-shirt, falling open over his skin. Okay, bad idea. His damp hair? Another bad idea. It’s wilder now than it had been, and his eyes are prettier. Skinny calves and square palms and long, blunt-cut fingers. No part of Richie is safe to look at. And it’s more than that too. He’s overwhelming because he’s always talking and because sometimes…  _ sometimes _ , he shuts up long enough to stare at Eddie like he thinks he’s overwhelming too.

So Eddie sits, leaning against his bed, his knees pulled to his chest, and he stares at the buttons on his radio, balanced on Richie’s chest. Outside, Derry is still sinking.

“You wanna watch something?” he asks. “I taped-”

“Y’know, I thought it’d be romantic, coming to see you in the rain,” says Richie. His eyes are still closed.

“What?” Eddie tugs his legs are little closer to his chest, tucks his hands between his calves and his thighs.  _ Overwhelming _ , he thinks. He’s sinking too, he thinks. “ _ What _ ?”

“I watched um-” Richie laughs, “-I watched Point Break the other night, did you see that?”

“The surfing movie?”

“Yeah.” He opens his eyes, moves the radio to the floor, sits up. He puts his glasses on, blinks rapidly, licks his lips. “The last scene, it’s raining and they’re on the beach and they’re handcuffed together, y’know? Um, Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze. And it’s like dramatic as fuck and they’re basically in love with each other but Keanu has to let Patrick Swayze go kill himself in the ocean, because he’d rather die in the waves than in prison.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Richie.”

“I’m talking about Derry,” says Richie, rolling his eyes. “And I’m talking about… about you.”

“That’s not helping me underst-”

“You’re Keanu, okay? You’re Johnny Utah and I’m Bodhi and we’re handcuffed together, but instead of you letting me go and die, we’re gonna leave together.”

“And  _ die _ ?”

“Nah, we’ll probably just make out.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I am incredibly sober.”

“Did you walk here in the rain just to tell me that you want us to run away together?”

“What do you mean,  _ just _ ?”

“I don’t know what’s happening.”

“I’m in love with you,” says Richie, exasperated. “Like Bodhi and Johnny Utah. We can’t be caged.”

“Oh.” Eddie blinks, blinks again, squeezes his hands more firmly between his calves and thighs, so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach for Richie. “Do you have a fever?” 

“Only in like… a Peggy Lee sense.” 

“Right.” 

Richie crosses his legs. His glasses have fogged up again, like little static screens over his eyes. He keeps licking his lips. He keeps tugging at his cuffs, pulling them over the heels of his palm and then pushing them back up his forearms, encircling one wrist with the other hand and twisting like he’s taking the cap off a bottle. Eddie isn’t really sure where to look, so he stares at the radio again.  _ Rewind _ , he thinks, giddily.  _ Back the fuck up and start again and this time make sense, please _ . If anything, Richie is Keanu Reeves, that’s for damn sure.

Then Richie touches the damp toe of his sock to Eddie’s calf and Eddie shrieks and shrinks back and Richie grins at him and even with his smudged up glasses, Eddie can see his heart in his eyes. It’s overwhelming. The rain has eased a little. 

“Do you really want to leave Derry?” Eddie asks then, getting his voice back. 

“Not right now, but one day.” 

“Yeah,” says Eddie, quietly. “Okay.” 

“Together?” Richie taps at Eddie’s leg with his foot again. Eddie laughs this time, feeling giddy. 

“Sure,” he says. “Of course.” 

Then Richie shuffles forward, turning so he’s sitting next to Eddie now, against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. The wild, half-wet strands of his hair brush against Eddie’s cheek. He wonders if Richie was home alone too, if his parents were out running errands and he was left to his own devices. He wonders what it takes for his thoughts to turn to Eddie. It takes almost nothing to make Eddie think of Richie. Someone with glasses on the street. Someone laughing. Someone full of sunshine, even in the rain. 

“Eds,” Richie says, his voice gently insistent, and Eddie turns to him and Richie sighs, like everything has lined up, just as it should. 

Richie kisses Eddie, and he tastes like the rain, like the air, clean and clear. A closed mouth, a soft sort of thing, just the press of their lips and Richie’s hand tipping Eddie’s chin up a little, so their mouths meet neatly. Eddie is overwhelmed, but only for an instant. He pushes forward when he gets his head back, takes Richie’s damp collar in one hand, presses his knee between his thighs, against the carpet. He licks at the seam of Richie’s mouth to open it and Richie laughs, a breathy sound, like the wings of a bird, his heart in his mouth. His hands move, from Eddie’s face to the base of his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper, falling back onto his elbows, letting Eddie climb on top of him and only pulling away to laugh again. Eddie scowls down at him. He doesn’t really know how this happened. How he’s straddling Richie Tozier on his bedroom floor. How he hasn’t burned up into ash with just a look. He touches his finger to Richie’s mouth, shushing him, and Richie bites at his knuckle and laughs again. Outside, the rain has stopped. 

Later, they’re sitting on Eddie’s bed, and Eddie’s forgotten all about black mold and pneumonia. Richie is mostly dry now anyway, his hair a halo of static. They have the windows open and the air is warm, cleaned out by the rain, and they’re holding hands. Derry has settled into its soil again, not sinking, not  _ safe _ , but stable enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the scene in point break](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78s7DO5eehQ&t=62s)


End file.
